


Aftermath

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels Are Known, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2015, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, POV Alternating, Past Character Death, Religion, Small Towns, Southern Literature, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 07:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4951579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even more unforgiving than the heat in Southern Georgia is the court system. Recently arrested for theft, Dean's third offense lands him in the sole custody of one of Albany's resident Angel-turned-Lawyers, Castiel. After the death of his parents, Dean's left to care solely for his seven-year-old brother Sam, stirring up trouble across town until Castiel is assigned as his Guardian, the United States' latest version of community service officer. But not even an Angel can do anything to help the gaping wound left in the Winchester's lives, and Dean wants nothing to do with Castiel until he does. He gives Dean a set of fifty good deeds to do during their arrangement together, after which Castiel is set to leave to find another client and Dean to tend to what's left of his family.</p><p>But, can such small acts of kindness really bring Dean back from the brink? And can Castiel really find it in himself to leave, after all is said and done?</p><p>A 2015 Dean/Cas Big Bang</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Like a Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Just as a foreword, I set out to write this with the intent of writing about the south. Specifically, my hometown. I'm from Albany, but I lived in Leesburg for most of my childhood in the '90s, and I still visit every year against my will. (No, I didn't know Luke Bryan, but he and my cousin did go to the same high school.) It's your run of the mill small town out in the middle of nowhere Georgia, and there's literally nothing to do. But, I wanted to give Dean something he never got, so I gave him my childhood home and the land I used to walk every day. All of the places actually exist, and if you ever do get the chance to drive through on your way to Disney World, stop on by. 
> 
> I also wanna thank my lovely artist [Mary Twist](http://bitchjerks.co.vu/) for having to listen to me squeal about how wonderful she is. It was great working with you, honey! The official artpost is [**here.**](http://bitchjerks.co.vu/post/130688154266/aftermath-a-dcbb15-written-by)
> 
> More thanks and other things are in the final note.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

 

 

**Part 1**

**_August_ **

“Do you understand the charges that have been brought against you, Mr. Winchester?”

“Yes, sir.” Because that hadn’t been drilled into his head enough already. He knew what he did—he knew _why_ he had to do it, too. The proof was sitting in the first row of the courtroom, little hands balled into fists in his lap against the ill-fitting suit he wore, lifted from a thrift shop in town after hours, out of sight of the security cameras and faulty alarm system. Cheaper than having to buy it off the shelf, for sure.

“Understand, now, that this is your third offense. We have every right to incarcerate you for a year’s time.” He nodded, shifting his wrists in his handcuffs, head bowed; he couldn't bear to look at the judge any longer, knowing his eyes were pitying him, wanting nothing to do with him other than throw him behind bars. He couldn't go down that road again. He couldn't even afford a lawyer to defend himself, instead relying on a family friend of nearly ten years to pull him through the proceedings. If only he hadn’t been so _reckless_ , hadn’t gotten caught in the first place.

“Your prior two offenses, you were arrested for theft by taking. Items included,” Judge Hendrickson flipped through the stack of papers in front of him, “a gallon of milk and two jars of peanut butter, both from separate locations.” Another nod. Garth was whispering something to him, inaudible over the constant hum in his ears. “You were taken in on August fifth after you stole fifty dollars from the register at Harveys, and you’ve spent the last week in county lockup. Is this correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

Behind him, he heard a hiccup and scattered voices, all unrecognizable. They were waiting their turn, next on the docket; he was taking up their time. They deserved to be before the judge, not him—he was only doing what he could, what he _had_ to, anything to get his brother by. His own welfare came second.

“Now, son.” Judge Hendrickson leaned forward and folded his hands on the bench, eyes scrutinizing, daring to be sympathetic. “I know your situation, and I know it’s been a hard few months on the both of you, after your parents’ deaths. I _know_ you’re a good man, Dean. I know you’re better than this. And I _know_ you love your brother and you’re doing what _you_ feel is best for him. That’s why,” he pointed to the back of the room, past Sam and the other men dressed in orange jumpsuits and their lawyers, towards the double oak-paneled doors, “we’re assigning you a temporary agent.

“According to the law in the state of Georgia, for young adults who commit three or more felonies within a year period, as a form of community service in lieu of being imprisoned, that person is to be allotted a Guardian to accompany them for whatever length of time said Guardian chooses. And if you wish to keep your brother under your roof, you’ll abide by his rules. Are you aware of what I’m asking of you?”

Another noise of compliance. What else was he supposed to say? Nodding wouldn't get him anywhere, so said Garth, still muttering something in his ear that sounded like ‘just keep saying yes.’ Neither of them knew what exactly a _Guardian_ meant—when had that law been enacted? Or had he not been reading the paper enough recently? Normally, community service entailed having to go pick up trash in the Big White Bus or putting in time at shelters or food kitchens. Not being _looked_ after like some sort of wayward soul.

That was what he was, wasn't it? A lost human just looking out for those he cared about the most, and nothing more.

“Your Guardian goes by the name of Castiel, and he personally signed on for your case, so I’d advise you to _tolerate_ him for as long as you can.” Dean jumped at the sound of his gavel hitting its mark on the desk. Judge Hendrickson motioned towards the back of the room. “Bring him in.”

All eyes in the room turned to watch the two bailiffs pull open the set of double doors to the hallway of the Dougherty County Courthouse, a frazzled man walking through with a purposeful gait, the soles of his loafers clicking with each step on the hardwood floor, echoing off the cramped walls. His tan coat billowed behind him, finally settling mid-way down his shins once he stopped to stand at Dean’s side, one hand shoved deep in his pocket, the other ruining his already unkempt mop of dark hair further. His tie matched the color of his eyes, some insane shade of blue that could rival even the sky. Said tie was also backwards and hastily knotted—did they get this guy off the _street_?

More importantly, _this_ was supposed to be his Guardian? Some freak dressed in a business suit in the middle of South Georgia in late summer?

“My apologies,” the man started, out of breath. “They were rerouting traffic on Oglethorpe, I wasn't sure how to get here.”

“Well, you’re just in time.” The Judge pointed two fingers at him. “This is Dean Winchester, the boy you’ll be looking out for for the foreseeable future.”

Well, _this_ was happening. Castiel turned to him and extended a hand, belatedly realizing the state of Dean’s own, shackled to his front by a pair of well-used handcuffs; he could probably break them if he tried hard enough. Neither made a move to apologize, both turning to Hendrickson and awaiting whatever else he was planning to divulge. “Castiel will be working with you until he feels you’ve sufficiently repaid your debt to society.”

 _What_ debt? It wasn't like he stole the Hope Diamond; it was a few dozen dollars and food. Things he needed to keep Sam alive, keep from having to put _another_ person in the ground in the record span of a year. Things had been going so well in the last while, too. As well as they could have been, at least.

“Are there any questions you’d like to ask the court, Mr. Winchester?”

Dean turned his attention to the floor, pointedly ignoring the man at his side, sighing, low. “…Can I go home, now?”

-+-+-+-+-+-

Much as Dean Winchester’s file listed, he lived close to the Lee County line past Chehaw and the Church of Christ on Highway 91. It might as well have been the middle of nowhere, each side of the road either blanketed with thickets of trees or rolling fields, the cotton and corn swaying in the gentle afternoon breeze, still a few months from harvest—certainly no place for a young man to take care of a dwindling family. The air rolled warm through the windows of Castiel’s Continental, Dean in the backseat with his hands in his lap, wrists rubbed raw from fidgeting in his handcuffs, wearing the same jeans and T-shirt the police picked him up in a week ago, eyes locked on the passing homes outside, face blank as ever.

Not even his brother at his side could stir him, the younger Winchester sitting cross-legged on the upholstery, occasionally breaking the stagnant silence of the vehicle with idle chatter. Where he had been staying while Dean was ‘away,’ how his first week of second grade was, what he was planning to do for the weekend—it was nice, having someone in the car to talk to, even if he _was_ seven years old. He would understand, someday, what it all meant.

The sparsely populated highway shifted into an almost barren landscape the further they drove down Middle Road, Dean finally taking interest in his environment and rattling off just where Castiel needed to go; down a red-clay road past a green-blacked sign reading Pye Pond and adjacent to a wheat field was a white-paneled single-wide trailer, tin roof gleaming with the afternoon sun beneath an endless blue sky, a red wooden porch framing the front door, adorned with a hanging glider and several metal chairs, all shielded beneath corrugated metal. They had no neighbors other than a bricked ranch at the road’s mouth and another trailer near the dead end, their property sitting on a blank parcel, a dead wheat field taking up majority of their land.

This was _no_ place for them to be living.

Sam was the first to exit the car with the house keys in hand, Castiel having parked the aging Continental in the grassy portion of their yard, past the mailbox and the two-foot ditch that separated them from the clay path. In the backseat, Dean sat, unmoving, fingers fidgeting for something to hold on to. He hadn’t spoken a word save for directions since they left the courthouse, not even to his brother, no matter how much he had insisted. “Are you alright?” Castiel asked, tone neutral, turning to face the elder Winchester and loosening the tie around his neck. His coat lay in the passenger foot well, the lack of air conditioning leaving the interior stiflingly hot, even with the crank windows rolled down.

Dean nodded, a small thing; if he hadn’t been staring, he would have never noticed the clench of Dean’s jaw, the abrupt intake of air through his mouth, nearly choking on it. “’M fine,” he finally breathed in reply, popping the door latch and stepping outside, boots crunching sunburnt grass. “Don’t need you to be my dad, sir.”

Dean left him in a flurry of movement, stomping across the yard and up the painted stairs of the porch, disappearing behind the manufactured door. In all his years of working for the Albany court system, he had never met someone as _obstinate_ as Dean. The others were normally pessimistic but reluctant to get their service over with, complying with whatever was on the docket for the period they were together. Then again, most of them were slightly older, looking to get on with their lives. But Dean wanted nothing to do with him or his job, or his existence in general. How was he supposed to help someone who could barely handle themselves?

Sam was sprawled out on his stomach in the living room by the time Castiel dragged himself from the front seat, a collection of coloring books and a carton of one-hundred-twenty count Crayolas in various states of use spread out before him, the boy attentively detailing the front end of a half-colored car. The room had at one point been lovingly attended to, a blue couch pushed against the wall beneath a window with matching loungers facing across from it, framing an oak table littered with old glasses, dying roses in a vase and a bowl of assorted chocolates, a few wrappers scattered about. A television sat at the head of the room on top of a well-worn entertainment center, the screen off, covered in a thin film of dust. A flowery blue rug covered a good portion of the pink shag carpeting, his loafers slipping with each soft step.

“You can take your shoes off,” Sam commented, not bothering to look up from his book, rummaging through his pile for a blue crayon. “Dean doesn’t like it when there’s dirt on the carpets.”

“I’m sorry.” In haste, Castiel set down his suitcase at the door, toeing off his loafers and setting them aside. “Your brother—.”

“He went to go lay down in mommy’s room, prob’bly.” Sam shrugged and lifted his head, hazel eyes blinking, slow, before turning back down. Castiel walked to seat himself at the end of the couch, leaning over to watch the boy, now doodling something in the corner of the page that looked like a sun. “He sleeps a lot. I don’t think he feels good sometimes.”

Castiel furrowed his brow. “…Is there anything wrong with him?”

Sam looked up at him with scrutiny, eyes narrowing for the briefest of seconds before he spoke. “How do you know Dean?”

“I’m his lawyer.” It was an easy answer; Sam had been in the courtroom during Dean’s hearing, he at _least_ knew what his profession was.

“No, I know _that_. You look like the other lawyers, ‘cept you got a blue tie. It’s pretty.” Dropping his crayon, Sam rolled over onto his back and sat up, fully facing Castiel, small hands brushing long locks of auburn hair away from his face. “Are you an Angel?”

“I…” Castiel couldn't deny the absolute wonder dancing in Sam’s eyes. It wasn’t like he could lie about it—the world already knew of Angels on earth, the impartiality of their nature making them great workers in positions that needed unbiased opinions. In most cases, they were assigned as lawyers for the courts in larger cities, especially in higher profile cases. In many of the smaller towns, they also worked as community service officers, affectionately named Guardians. The less threatening they appeared, the more people they could ‘rehabilitate.’ It only worked half the time, but at least both parties could say they _tried_.

“…I’m an Angel, yes.”

Sam mouthed out a long ‘wow,’ the amazement on his face bringing the faintest of smiles to Castiel’s lips. “So can you do magic tricks ‘n stuff?”

Castiel shook his head with dismay; Sam visibly deflated. “…No, I’m sorry. Angels can… The ones that are on earth, we’re Watchers. We’re limited to the most basic of our powers. But… I can move things with my mind.” Extending a finger, Sam turned to watch a Reese’s float out of the bowl a good foot, dropping into the boy’s lap. Castiel might as well have told him Santa was real, based on his expression. “I can also fly, tend to wounds—.”

“Can you fix Dean?”

Castiel cocked his head to the side, watching Sam unwrap the candy with steady fingers, popping it in his mouth before folding the aluminum and paper wrappers into tiny squares, twiddling it between his fingers. “Is there something wrong with him?”

Sam turned his attention to the coloring book again, chewing his lip. “He sleeps a lot, since mommy and daddy went away. He tries to go work too, but they keep telling him to go home. He doesn’t wanna talk about it, neither.” Castiel regarded him in what he hoped was a neutral expression, trying his hardest to fight off the pang in his heart at the words. Was it really more complicated than what it said in the file? Was the court system even bothering to look into his living situation? “I know he steals, but he’s just trying to be good, I _swear_.” Sam looked up at him again, eyes rimmed red at the edges. “You’re not—You’re not gonna take him away, are you?”

“What?” Why would he do that? Unless one of the Angels in the court system had threatened them in week’s prior, as long as Dean was Sam’s legal guardian, there wouldn’t have been a reason for Sam to be taken into state custody. Sam looked… relatively normal for a seven year old, Castiel figured; he didn't appear malnourished or mistreated, his clothes were in decent shape, and their home was actually well cared for, compared to the other houses he had tended to in the past.

Castiel might not have had the complete emotional capacity to recognize unbridled fear, but he knew how to comfort someone if the need arose. At the sight a tear slipping free, he knelt on the hideously tacky rug and brought Sam into his arms, the boy tucking in close, small arms wrapped tight around his neck and face buried in his jacket clad shoulder. “I’m not going to take your brother away from you, Sam,” he said, patting the boy’s back.

“I don’t wanna go to gran’ma and gran’pa’s,” he pleaded, tiny fists gripping his jacket tight. “They’re nice ‘n all, but I miss Dean.”

“I know you do,” Castiel said through a sigh; Sam pulled back, wiping his eyes dry. “And I’m going to do whatever I can to keep him here.”

With a nod, Sam stepped away to return to his coloring book, flipping to a new page with a printed outline of a Chevrolet Impala parked outside a barn. “It’s Dean’s car,” Sam commented, pulling black and green crayons from the pile, beginning to color in the wheels. Castiel’s attempt to reply was stopped by a loud bang on the other side of the trailer, catching more of his attention than Sam’s. “He prob’bly dropped something again. He does that a lot.”

Apparently Dean did a _lot_ of things that Sam wasn't aware of. “I’ll go check on him,” Castiel stated, eyeing Sam. “Are you… alright by yourself?”

“I’m okay,” Sam shrugged; he got up to lock the front door, bare feet dragging on the carpet.

Beyond the linoleum floored kitchen and a freezer lodged in the narrow pink-carpeted corridor, Castiel pushed open the door to what looked to be the master bedroom, adorned with a waterbed with an attached bookcase headboard and an oak-paneled dresser on the adjacent wall, the chest of drawers next to the window carrying the weight of a JVC television and doilies draping the top. A wicker basket sat beneath the single-pane window, translucent drapery blocking out the little light that streamed through, barely shielding the figure among the rumpled sheets from the blinding sun.

As far as he could tell, Dean was sleeping, an arm over his eyes and sheets pulled up to his waist, one hand still gripping them tight. _He fell asleep before he even got his socks off,_ Castiel considered. Padding across the floor, he helped pull the fabric from between Dean’s lax fingers and tugged it up and over his body, settling the heaviest blanket over his neck; if Dean noticed, he didn't give any indication, simply scrunching his nose in his sleep and settling deeper into his cocoon, gone to the world.

 _He’s safe here_ , he murmured to himself, kneeling long enough at Dean’s side to run a hand through sweat-matted hair, feeling the boy let out a hot breath in content. _He’ll be alright. For a little while, at least._ If only he could have believed that, himself.

Against his better judgment, Castiel left the room just as quietly as he left, closing the bedroom door behind him, only to find Sam standing a step before him, hands bunched up at his sides and hazel eyes staring up into his own, eerily pleased with himself. “Can we go to the store, Cas?”

Castiel blinked. “I—what do you need at the store?”

As an answer, Sam took his hand and dragged him into the kitchen, leading him to the pantry. “We don’t have any food,” he started, opening the cabinets he could reach, revealing a pack of saltine crackers and questionably dated soup cans, all of which had gathered dust. “Dean was gonna get lunch before he left. But—you have money, right? You can buy things?”

Castiel nodded, wary. “You’re—What have you been doing while he was across town?”

A shrug. “I was staying with Kevin. His mom said I could sleep over ‘cause Jody was busy.”

That was good, at least; thankfully the state hadn’t felt the need to get involved, and he had plenty of people to look after him in the instance Dean wasn’t there to provide for him. But what if Dean never came home? Who would have taken him in, then? Where was the rest of his _family_? Castiel let out a breath, feeling around for his wallet in his pants pocket; it was the _least_ he could do, now that Dean was home and resting. “…What do you want for dinner, Sam?”

Sam pulled at his jacket sleeve with a smile. “C’mon, Cas!”

-+-+-+-+-+-

A gradual rise and fall of light passed through the drapery at the other end of the room, bathing the master bedroom in sporadic rays of quickly dissipating sunshine before vanishing again, the sudden loss of warmth chilling Dean’s face and his free hand, lying lax on a laundered white pillowcase. He didn't exactly remember the floor being that comfortable until he opened his eyes, blinking into his new surroundings. Bedroom. He was in bed—his _parent’s_ bed, their bedroom, now his own—with a throw blanket draped over him, bare feet exposed to the mild chill of the room. Someone must have turned on the air-conditioning again, probably Sam. Or the new guy.

Right, _Castiel_. His new legal Guardian, whatever that meant. The last few hours were a blur in his mind, memories interspersed with red and a dulled pain in his wrist. The only thing remotely familiar was the room around him, the blankets on the king bed still rumpled despite having been last slept in a week ago, the bookcase headboard lined with various Angel figurines on each shelf, ornate lamps and stacks of well-read books decorating the dresser and side tables. A thin film of dust covered the television and the entertainment center in front of the window, sunlight streaming in through thickening clouds. Rain was coming.

With a huff, Dean moved to rip the blanket off of him and shuffle out the bedroom door, a twinge in his back stopping him temporarily. All those years sleeping on a waterbed, he was still surprised no one had significant spinal problems, based on how a few hours treated him.But at least there was an upside to waking up there—he wasn't in the county jail anymore.

Showering was his first priority, taking the time to pull the curtain closed and revel in the water pressure before he left to face the rest of the day, scrubbing himself clean of the stink of sweat and whatever else was on the flimsy mattress in his cell water doing wonders for the ache in his bones and the muddled thoughts clouding his head, letting it all bleed from his skin down the drain. If only for a few minutes, he was at peace with himself, content in his own bubble.

The smell of garlic caught his attention the second he walked out of the cramped bathroom, hair dried and towel wrapped around his waist—someone was cooking. _Someone_ —hopefully not Sam—was cooking with food he didn't have, unless they left the house while he was asleep. A pink post-it note left on the unattended pillow was his confirmation, reading ‘Went to Harveys with Sam, back in an hour,’ in neat black ink. _Great_. Not only had he kidnapped Sam while he was unconscious, but they were apparently in the kitchen together, _cooking_. His stomach growled in betrayal.

It took pulling a pair of blue flannel pajamas on and another minute of convincing for him to leave the floral-wallpapered monstrosity of his parents’ bedroom, shuffling his feet over carpet down the hall, past the freezer in the corner and into the kitchen. Castiel stood at the sink with a colander in hand, shaking out the last remnants of water before dumping it into a red pot on the counter while Sam sat on a Bell South book in one of the four dining table chairs, a glass of water at his side, scribbling in short rows of green on the bottom of a white sheet of paper.

“You went out?” Dean asked, abrupt, Castiel nearly dropping the pot on the floor; Sam turned around long enough to shout Dean’s name, resuming his coloring while Castiel set the pot on a cloth holder in the middle of the table.

“You were asleep,” Castiel commented, continuing his trip around the kitchen, slipping a hand into a burnt mitt and pulling a tray from the oven drawer, garlic wafting through the small room. Garlic bread—he should’ve known. “Sam asked if we could go to Harveys to find things for dinner, and we looked through your pantry. He suggested spaghetti, but you didn't have—.”

“I know what I don’t _have_ ,” he bit through a hiss. Castiel closed the oven door and placed the pan on the table, pulling the mitt off his hand to toss it onto the countertop. “That’s how I got in this mess in the _first_ place, remember?”

“That doesn't mean you have to live like this.” Castiel thumbed the edge of his belt, lips pursed. “As your Guardian, I can buy—.”

“Well, what if I don’t _want_ you to be my ‘Guardian’?” Dean barked. Both Castiel and Sam watched him, the latter the more fearful of the pair. “You can’t just waltz in here like you _own_ the place, _Cas_. You don’t know me, or Sammy, or what my _life_ is—.”

“Because you’re not _letting_ me—.”

“Damn straight I’m not!” Dean slapped the countertop, wincing at the pain that shot through his arm. He didn't need Castiel in his home trying to do the right thing, or cook him dinner or _any_ of it. “Sammy’s _my_ responsibility, I don’t need some tightwad _Angel_ doing what I—what I _can’t_!” He stepped forward, jabbing a trembling finger into Castiel’s shoulder joint, chewing his lip. “’N I don’t need you _fixin_ ’ me, or drivin’ me home, or none of that!”

Castiel just shot him a glare, folding his arms and tapping his fingers along his ribcage. “I’d prefer we not talk about this in front of—.”

“No, we’re talkin’ about this _here_.” Another step forward and he was toe to toe with Castiel’s socked feet, the cheap linoleum cool to the touch. “You can’t just come in _here_ —.”

“Dean.” Both men looked over at Sam in his seat, green crayon crushed in his grip, eyes on the brink of tears. _Shit_ — _now look what you did, Dean. Made your brother cry_. “Cas’iel is really nice. …He’s just trying to help.”

The hand dragging him into the living room by his wrist cut off his attempt at reconciliation; Castiel pushed him into the middle of the room without preamble, planting both hands on Dean’s shoulders. “What is your issue?” he growled, blue eyes narrowed into near-slits, scrutinizing. For the first time, Dean shivered.

“I don’t _have_ an issue,” Dean whispered back, words rushing out in a hiss. “You’re not his _dad_ , okay? I don’t want you actin’ like you’re gonna stay here—.”

“I am.”

 _What_? “…The _fuck_ d’you mean by that—.”

“Contrary to what you believe, you _need_ me, Dean.” A low growl bubbled from Dean’s throat, hands clenching at his sides. “You’re a smart man, I’m sure of it. But you have no source of income, you’ve reduced yourself to robbing the Harveys and whatever corner store you can find. And what would Sam do if you got arrested again? If I reported to my superiors the conditions you’re living in, he would be in the state’s custody by morning.” The closer Castiel crowded, the further Dean backed away, until his back hit the dusted television set on the back wall, eyes wide, heart hammering in his chest. He wouldn't, would he? “And despite that, I still believe you deserve to live, whether you think so or not.”

“You wouldn't—You wouldn't take him away.” He reached up to grab Castiel’s wrist, jagged nails digging into soft flesh. “You _wouldn’t_ , Cas—.”

“I _won’t_.” Castiel’s eyes softened considerably, lowering his head. “I… Despite my best interests, I want to help you. And you need to let me do that, if you want _any_ chance of saving your brother.”

“I…” He didn’t have a choice—Castiel made it clear. Through one of the two open doorways to the kitchen, he spotted Sam peeking around the interior wall, only his fingers and half of his face visible; Dean saw the fear in his eyes, the sense of guilt there, still unshakeable three months later. His brother wouldn't be the same without him, instead being forced to grow up in an environment that bred self-hatred and regret, knowing there was nothing he could have done to stop their parents’ deaths or his brother’s stupidity. How was Dean supposed to live knowing that he was the cause of it all? If they would have just gone along…

“Dean.” Castiel covered Dean’s wrist with his unattended hand, lifting each finger off one by one, never once breaking eye contact. “Yes or no. I can assign someone else to you if you’d prefer, but I wouldn't trust them to be as lenient.”

Exhaling through his nose, Dean shook his head, body growing weary under Castiel’s new touch, fingers skirting the bruised knuckles of his hand, the abrasions singing with flared heat and stitching back together in a second’s time. “Tell me what I need to do,” Dean said, a declaration. In the background, he watched a grin uptick Sam’s lips before he darted back into the kitchen.

Castiel smiled, pulling his hand away and tucking it back at his side. “We’ll discuss it over dinner. You look faint.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, keeping his eyes to the floor. “Yeah, well, food ran out two months ago. Kinda been lookin’ faint _every_ day.”

Part of him was grateful that Sam was such an extroverted handful; from the start of their dinner—spaghetti with a homemade sauce that had Dean practically begging for the recipe between mouthfuls—Sam kept the conversation flowing away from Dean, yammering on about one of his classmates earlier in the day, a little Asian boy named Kevin who recently moved from Michigan. “He said it was too cold there,” he murmured around a mouthful of breadstick, looking between Castiel and Dean, Dean struggling to eat at a reasonable pace and not _choke_. “He lives in a really nice house by the school, he’s even got a pool!”

 _Wow_. Gone a week and Sam had already found a friend and went swimming in their pool. “Was that where you were staying?” Dean asked, pointing his fork at his brother.

Sam nodded, eyeing a meatball. “Gran’ma and gran’pa said they wanted me to stay, but Mrs. Tran’s closer to school.” The idea of the Campbell’s allowing Sam to stay at some stranger’s house wasn't entirely unreasonable; given the circumstances, though, Dean figured they would have put more effort into keeping him at their home, or at least called Bobby. Not that they were exactly helpful in the _first_ place, but the sentiment should have been there. They hadn’t even attempted to pay his bail. “They started going to our church, too.”

Castiel paused, fork nearly to his mouth with his eyes on Dean. “You two attend church?”

“Used to, not so much anymore.” Dean shrugged, scraping his fork across his empty plate. Maybe he should have slowed his pace a bit; his stomach wasn't complaining, for once. “Kinda had to, with dad bein’ the preacher ‘n all. Some new guy’s taken over since the funeral.”

Castiel offered his condolences in the form of a solemn nod. Both the Angel and Sam ate in silence for a brief second, Dean’s attention drifting to the window above the sink behind Castiel’s head. Wind blew through the trees on the property across the dirt road, bowing in the gusts; the storms were closing in, he figured, looking down at his lap. He really needed to pay the cable bill, or at least buy batteries for the portable radio in the living room. Maybe after he got his car from the impound lot, he could drive to the store. But with what _money_ , he didn't know, unless Castiel was planning to pay for that too.

Castiel broke the silence by clearing his throat, wiping his mouth clean with a paper towel. “I know it’s not exactly protocol, what I’m about to ask of you two, but I want you to take it into consider—.”

“Are you gonna stay with us?” Sam cut him off, practically bouncing out of his seat in excitement. He turned to Dean, hands gripping the table and nearly sending his fork flying. “Can he _please_ stay?”

“You don’t even know if he was gonna _ask_ that,” Dean retorted, eyeing Castiel from across the table. “…Were you?”

Castiel sucked in a breath before nodding. “It would be in all of our best interests if I stayed here, at least until I feel you’re well enough to continue living on your own, or we finish our arrangement, whichever comes first.”

Dean stared, transfixed. “You’re—Don’t you have a house of your own?”

“…Technically, no.” Both brothers watched as Castiel rose to take their plates, depositing them in the sink. “I live in communal housing for Angels downtown. There’s a house by the Art Park that the Dougherty County government allows us to stay in for a fee. Twenty of us are confined to four bedrooms. It’s… not the most comfortable place to be in, especially when the air conditioner is broken.”

“That’s… _Wow_ , dude. Doesn’t that violate the fire code?”

“Probably. It doesn't seem the county cares, either way.”

Dean helped Sam to the floor and left him to play in his room, joining Castiel at the sink, starting the water while Castiel rinsed out the remainder of food from the plates and pots into the disposal. “So,” he offered, wetting a sponge with dish soap—new, apparently—and scrubbing the inside of a crock pot clean, “you tired of your Angel buddies downtown, need a new place to shack up?”

Castiel shook his head with a chuckle, opening the dishwasher. “Yes and no. They’re trying in the best of times, and it’s increasingly difficult to deal with them when they’re all attempting to occupy the only fan in the house. I’ve slept in my car more nights than I’m willing to admit.”

At least that was something they had in common, sleeping in cars to get away from unruly relatives. In Dean’s case, he escaped from his father at least twice a week; the Impala was no place to sleep, especially as far away from town as they were. But it was more of a home than his room was half the time, door locks doing nothing to shield him from prying eyes or the omnipresent influence that man had over the house and everyone in it. Yet three months after they laid him and their mother in Thundering Springs Cemetery, he had never felt freer in his life, minus the weeklong stint behind bars. The morbidity of it left him unsettled every time he stepped foot inside, slept in their bed, looked at Sam.

And now Castiel was there, the confirmation of all his failures. All the things he couldn't accomplish on his own, embodied in a man wearing an ill fitted suit with hair that desperately needed a brush taken to it. “So, this ain’t some joke to get me to do what you want so you can leave, is it? You actually mean it?”

“I mean everything I say.” Castiel turned to him, placing a wet hand on his shoulder, water seeping through the fabric of his Henley in a definite mark. “So, is that a yes or a no?”

“It’s…” Dean swallowed, staring at the pot in his hands. He squeezed the soap out of his sponge. “My room’s over there,” he thumbed towards a door past the living room, beyond a small corridor. “Been stayin’ in mom ‘n dad’s old room cause it’s closer to Sammy, so it’s pretty much free.”

Castiel deflated at his side, bracing himself on the countertop and hanging his head—had he been _anticipating_ this? Had he really expected to be turned away? “I won’t take up much space,” he said, lips turning up at the edges just enough to be noticeable. “All I own is in a suitcase.”

“ _That_ thing?” Dean motioned to the medium-sized case sitting by the front door, looking worse for wear, even at a distance. “Your place downtown _really_ that bad?”

“It’s mostly clothing. We aren’t typically inclined towards earthly effects. But…” He paused to turn on the disposal, waiting for a full thirty seconds before shutting it off and speaking again, all with a wistful look on his face. “I collect porcelain bells. I have a few in a small box, but I’ve never had a place to put them.”

Castiel looked… peaceful, talking about them in the waning sunlight through the kitchen window. He named a few of the cities he had traveled to in the past while they loaded the dishwasher, Dean wiping down the countertop and rearranging the chairs until they were to his liking. Somewhere along the way, Castiel’s words faded into background noise, the sound calming leftover frayed nerves and lulling Dean into a sense of security. Part of him could get used to this, having someone around at all hours of the day acting as his shadow. At least then, he could have some company that wasn't a seven-year-old yammering in his ear. The other, more rational part of his brain told him it was too good to be true—Castiel would leave at the first sign of trouble and never look back.

“So what’re you wantin’ me to do?” Dean asked from one end of the couch, watching Castiel pick up the mess of crayons and candy wrappers littered on the rug. He cocked an eyebrow. “You give him candy?”

“Normally we ask humans to do basic community service jobs,” Castiel answered, more concentrated on sorting out colors and stacking them back in their box than actually talking. “Though, I’m not like my siblings. I typically take a more… immersive approach based on what I feel will work for my client.” Well _that_ didn't sound good. “I want you to be charitable to others. You may think that you’re not significant to the grand scheme of things, but I see the way you treat your brother, and I _know_ he loves you as much as you love him.” Castiel stood and set the box and coloring books on the table, turning on a touch lamp with two fingers to the base. “The world is cruel to everyone, but one small act can mean the world to someone who thinks they don't deserve it.”

It sounded easy enough on paper—actually _doing_ it was another matter entirely. Where in town was he supposed to go, though? Albany wasn't the biggest city in the state, and the only people he knew personally were the church congregation and the children he took care of in the nursery during service. But this wasn't about them—this was about strangers. Men and women he had never met before, and Dean expecting nothing in return for his services.

He could do that. Anything to get Castiel off his back. “So, how long’re you gonna make me do this for?”

“There’s no set time or date I want you to finish,” Castiel explained from his chair. “I want _you_ to want to, I don’t want you to feel obligated. I’d like for you to keep a list of all the people you’ve helped, at least fifty of them. After that, we’ll see where we’ll go.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Dean shrugged, noncommittal. “So I just… go around and do nice things for people?”

“And donate your time to what you feel is right. It should come naturally to you. Oh, and one of the conditions listed in your file is for you to find a job. Not right away, but something to bring in income in the near future.”

 _Great_ , that talk. It wasn't bad enough that his father wanted him in the workplace at twelve, but now Castiel was telling him to get out of the house? “Easier said than done,” he mumbled, leaning back against the couch.

Castiel cocked his head to the side. “Have you not tried?”

“Oh, I’ve tried,” he laughed, low. “It’s just…” He gestured to Sam’s room past the kitchen, “I’ve gotten hired three times in the past few months. Tried real hard too… But then Sammy got sick, ‘n some nights I’d crash and miss my shift… Y’know, all my friends from high school ain’t even called me? No one’s checked to see how I was holdin’ up? They’re all probably at their first choice schools ‘n I’m stuck here tryin’ to get my life together. I was gonna go to Tech, y’know. Had a scholarship and everything, but…” He pressed his palms to his eyes, blowing out a quick breath. “I just… I wanted to get outta this town ‘n make somethin’ of myself. Now look at me.” Dropping his hands, he caught the look on Castiel’s face, somewhere between pity and concern. “Been arrested for shoplifting, I’m pretty sure all I got left to my name is six bucks in a coin jar, and that right there? Was the first real meal I’ve had since the church stopped givin’ us casseroles. Great life I got for myself here.”

“Dean—.”

“No, don’t, Cas. Just…” He sat up and ran a hand through his hair, mussing up the dried locks further. “I gotta go get Sammy’s bath ready. ‘N then, I’m gonna pass out for about a week. You can… make yourself at home, I guess.”

He turned before he could see Castiel stand, see the somberness of his expression in the darkening light of the living room, hear the solemn ‘thank you’ he gave in gratitude. By the time Dean looked back from Sam’s bedroom door, the manufactured wood of his old one had closed, light switch flipped on for the first time since May. The battered suitcase was nowhere to be seen.

-+-+-+-+-+-

They shouldn't have fallen into a rhythm so quickly, he knew. Sam treated Castiel with more respect than anyone Dean had ever known aside from their father and Bobby, showing the Angel around the house with excitement, pointing out little things that Dean hadn’t seen in months, taking statuettes off of tables and dusting them off, telling Castiel about their significance. Where they came from, what he thought about them, why one of them had a crack and another was polished spotless. Was it because he was an Angel, or did Castiel have some magnetism that drew people to him without their knowledge? Dean didn't see the appeal—didn't see what Sam saw in him, other than his drive to save hopeless souls, souls that didn't need a helping hand.

 _Dean_ didn't need a helping hand.

The sun still hung high in the sky by the time Sam started yawning, barely on his feet in the living room floor while his brother and Castiel arranged Legos on the rug, Sam building a haphazard house and Castiel an ornate tower out of all the white blocks. “You gettin’ tired?” Dean bit through a yawn from the couch, Sam glancing over to him with tired eyes and stumbling in his direction, falling into Dean’s outstretched arms. “C’mon, let’s get you in bed,” he hummed, hoisting Sam up to his chest, his brother’s arms around his neck, face buried in his shoulder.

Castiel met his eyes when he turned, nodding an answer to an unspoken question. “I’ll clean up. You help your brother, and I’ll check on you later.”

With a nod, Dean carried his brother to bed and helped him into his pajamas, Sam promptly nodding off the second he laid upon the mattress, even before he could get the Star Wars-decorated blanket over his tiny frame. He looked calm there, at peace. Castiel could take care of him—Castiel would be a good father. The father Dean never got, the father he could never be for his own brother. “You’ll be safe with him,” he whispered against Sam’s forehead, pressing a soft kiss there, letting his hair cover his eyes. “You be good to him, you hear?”

Sam didn't answer. Dean shut off the light and left the door ajar, not bothering to glance back towards the living room as he headed towards his parent’s bedroom, treading the carpet and shutting himself inside the bathroom. His stash was there, he knew—stuffed under a box of Q-Tips in one of the drawers, away from prying eyes and questions, no one to find the packet of blades anymore. If his parents had ever known, they never spoke a word.

They were still there when he reached in, only one left, the others abandoned months ago when blood and metal didn't mix. This was for the greater good, he told himself, catching sight of himself in the mirror; shadowed, drawn skin, an irreparable sadness bored deep in his eyes looking back at him, his reflection speaking words he couldn't make out, but inherently understood. _Go ahead_ , he told himself. _Sam’s safe. He’ll be fine with Castiel._

His wrist looked even frailer than the last time he saw it, fingers drawing the tip of the blade horizontal and letting a few drops escape, enough of a sting to remind him that he was living—that he shouldn't have been in the first place. _Should’ve been me_ , he told himself, drawing another line, deeper now, leaning towards vertical. Another few, and he could move on to the main event. Get it over with—get himself out of the way. _Take it away_.

That was where Castiel found him a minute later, his presence a quiet reminder that he wasn't physically alone in his home, that he couldn't even escape on his own terms. Sad cobalt eyes watched him as he dropped the blade into the sink, red splattering on the porcelain and dripping from the wounds, the pain temporarily forgotten. As long as Castiel was watching over him, he couldn't feel a thing—he couldn't _stand_ it.

“Get outta here, man,” Dean drawled, voice thick in his throat, a tear slipping free. “’M fine, just—.”

“You’re not,” Castiel murmured, soft; his heart hurt at the sound. He didn’t deserve that voice, didn't deserve to even look at him. “You’re going to bleed to death.”

“Yeah? ‘N what if I want to?” Green eyes turned to the mirror, Dean sucking in a breath at the sight of himself, at his rumpled pajamas and unkempt hair, at the rattle in his breathing. “What if—What if I deserve this? I can’t… I can’t feed Sammy, I can’t keep a fuckin’ job, can’t even afford the bills… ‘N then you just waltz in here thinkin’ you’re gonna drag my ass outta the fire?” He laughed, a brittle noise. “Well, you can take your job and shove it up your ass!”

He made to leave the room—Castiel caught him before he collapsed, knees giving out in his attempt to flee. This was it—he finally did it. He was finally dying in the arms of a stranger with his brother in the next room, and he could barely bring himself to care. “…What’s _wrong_ with me?” he whimpered, voice shivering, tremors beginning to wrack his frame. “…Why can’t I do anything right?”

Castiel held him like that on the atrocious pink carpet, Dean clutching his wrist and muffling shuddering sobs into Castiel’s suit jacket, soaking through to his skin in a minute’s time; Castiel brought an arm around his neck, tugging him closer, his other hand prying Dean’s bloodied one away from the cuts, the skin knitting together under the pressure of two fingers. Dean whimpered through it, body falling lax into his embrace, Castiel drawing him in tight. “You did your best, Dean,” Castiel murmured into his ear, thumbing over the scarred skin of his wrist. “You did what you had to do, no one can punish you for that.”

“Tell that to the judge,” Dean laughed through another sob. “I don’t wanna go back there… I swear, I can take care’a Sammy, _please_. _Please_ , I’ll show you—.”

Castiel shushed him with a pat to the back, continuing, “I know you can. But what I need for you to do is to trust yourself and _listen_ to me. Do you think you can do that?” Slowly, Dean nodded, shivers quieting ever so slowly. “You… You don't have to talk about it now, but at some point, I’d like for you to. What you’re feeling is normal—.”

“Nothin’ ‘bout this is normal, man.” Dean pulled away enough to wipe the mess from his face, eyes glued to the floor. “My parents _died_ , and I’m… I’m just… _Look_ at me. I just tried to off myself with my little brother in the next room. …‘M just so tired.”

“I know, Dean,” Castiel cooed. He stroked the back of his fingers against Dean’s cheek, Dean leaning into the touch despite himself. “I know you’re hurting right now. But trust me when I say there is _nothing_ on earth that could force me to tear you and your brother apart. There’s nothing on earth that could get me to let you suffer.”

“Y’better promise,” Dean mumbled, words slurring; he needed to sleep, needed to rest somewhere where no one could disturb him. “’F you try anythin’—.”

“I won’t.” Castiel reached across to cover Dean’s hand, clutching it tight. He let the silence lapse for a brief second before he asked, “Do you think you can stand?”

Dean shook his head, sighing through his nose. “Can you just… sit with me, for a little while? Prob’bly gonna pass out if I move.”

He felt Castiel nod against him, Dean breathing into his shoulder while Castiel hummed something under his breath, lulling him into a partial sleep, body lax in his grip. “I want you to sleep in my bed,” Castiel muttered, his voice clear through the haze. “Until I know you’re alright. Can I carry you?”

“Please.” The words came before he could pull them back, Castiel taking it as permission enough. “Don’t wanna be alone. Don’t wanna be alone, anymore.”

A hand to his hair, and he was gone. “You’re not alone, Dean.”

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

The thunder wasn't entirely unexpected, based on the weather reports he caught before he left his former home that morning. For once, Castiel didn't have to run around the upstairs with his brothers and sisters to strategically place buckets under loose spots in the roofing, some holes from storms in previous years, others from shoddy construction and general mistreatment. It was a miracle in itself that the house hadn’t caught fire spontaneously. Another, that he hadn’t burnt it down himself.

No, the roof of the Winchester’s was sturdy, probably replaced or reinforced within the last year. Rain pinged off the tin shingles and poured off into the gutters, one directly by the bay window to the right of his—Dean’s—bed, curtains pulled closed. The storm started only minutes before, thunder sounding in the far off distance for the past thirty minutes before the first signs of rain began. It was louder now, rattling the half-empty bookshelf on the left wall, flickering the lights for the barest of seconds. It was by no means violent, more annoying than anything; still, he enjoyed it there immensely, where he could wear pajamas and read without having someone yammer in his ear about why he wasn't at the courthouse or how he wasn't in the kitchen. They could go on without him.

Two minutes after the first streak of lightning flashed through the windows, Sam burst into his bedroom carrying a large plush Labrador Retriever, slamming the door behind him, making his way around the queen bed and darting beneath the covers to his right, shielding himself from the thunder overhead, dog at his side. “I can’t find Dean, can I stay with you?” he said, words muffled by the comforter.

Castiel pushed his glasses back up his nose and lowered his book to his lap, looking over at the lump in the sheets. “He’s beside me. You didn’t see him?”

Sam’s head peeked out from beneath the sheets, the stuffed dog mirroring his movements until they both set their eyes on Dean, body curled into Castiel’s side, an arm draped over his lap, completely lost to the living. “Why isn’t he in his bed?”

Castiel shook his head—another time, another place, where Sam could understand the gravity of the situation. When he could understand Dean’s anguish and the pressure put on him, when he couldn't blame himself for his brother’s mistakes. “He couldn’t sleep,” was his only reply, an answer Sam took as fact.

The dog’s head nodded for him, flopping onto Castiel’s hip. “He doesn’t like storms,” Sam mumbled from under the comforter, the lights flickering above their heads. “I don’t either.”

Castiel hummed a noise, petting over where Sam’s head was. “Why’s that?”

“…’Cause that’s how mommy and daddy went away.”

 _Oh_. From what it said in Dean’s file, their parents’ deaths were listed as an act of God, the result of a tree collapsing into the roadway on State Road 32, forcing them to careen off the asphalt to avoid it and ultimately end in up in the swollen riverbed. No reason had been listed as to exactly why they were there in the first place; if anyone knew, it was their children, and neither appeared to be willing to discuss it at length. Sam had gone silent at his hip, the lump rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern, the beady eyes of the dog still staring up at him, the lone ceiling fixture reflecting in the glassy surface. Absently, he palmed the head of the toy, covering its eyes; at least that way, he didn't feel like it was watching him.

He lost himself again in _To the Lighthouse_ , the gentle thumb of pages doing little to mute the storm raging outdoors, rain pinging off the roof in gusting sheets. Another thirty minutes passed before the body at his right made a noise, a firm hand tugging at his nightshirt, urging him down onto his side. “’S not a dream,” he heard Dean mumble, words drowned in tears. “You’re not a dream.”

“I’m not.” Without disturbing Sam from his sleep, Castiel dog-eared his book and set it aside, maneuvering himself under the sheets. Dean buried himself closer on instinct, eyes closed the entire time, arm wrapping limply around his waist, still clinging tight to his shirt. “Are you alright?”

“Wanted it t’be a dream.” Dean choked back his tears just barely, a few strays falling into the crease of his nose, Castiel thumbing them away. “Wanted—if I sleep, then I’m still with ‘em. Then we’re our own little family again, ‘n nothin’s wrong. Then I don’t feel like I’m alone.” A breath, followed by a shuddering sigh. “And I wake up, and you’re here. ‘N that means they’re dead, and I’m—Me and Sammy—.”

In his arms, he watched Dean break into incoherent sobs, quiet in the roar of the storm, his face pressed to Castiel’s neck, mouth forming words he couldn't understand. He brought an arm around Dean’s side, letting the boy cry to his heart’s content, until all that was left were the last vestiges of thunder outside and Dean’s quiet murmurs, bloodshot eyes looking at his own, half lidded with sleeplessness. “You’ll be with them some day,” Castiel told him, thumbing away the wetness streaking his face. “But now isn’t your time. You’re strong, Dean. You’re capable of so much, but only if you allow yourself the opportunity.”

“’M not.” Dean closed his eyes, a fresh wave of tears escaping. “You shoulda picked someone else. ‘M not worth the effort.”

“You are.” Against his better judgment, he pulled Dean closer, letting him grip him back just as tightly, until all he felt was the warmth of Dean’s skin and hot breaths on his neck. “You’re worth more than you know. Let me show you.” He stroked a hand over Dean’s head, resting at his nape. “…Please.”

“Don’t trust you,” he heard Dean whisper. “But… I want to. So bad.”

“You can trust me.” Dean nodded against him, his body falling lax in Castiel’s hold. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He shouldn't have been doing this, he knew, letting two strangers share his bed in the middle of a storm and sleep at his side. He didn't have the heart to turn them away, though, not when they needed him the most, whether they knew it or not. Sam was more likely to admit it; Dean would come around, eventually. At least, he hoped he would. He was too set in his ways, too unwilling to admit the fact that he needed someone there to tell him he mattered, to set him on the right path. He didn't need to be fixed; he needed guidance. Affection. A sense of hope.

On the wall, the cuckoo clock read fifteen to midnight. Tomorrow was Saturday; they could sleep in if they wanted, and he wouldn't rush Dean into his tasks until he was ready, physically and otherwise. For now, he snapped his fingers and shut the overhead light off, bathing the room in darkness save for the spot behind his head, a small statuette of a Cherub illuminating the headboard, body glowing a brilliant yellow.

 _So many Angels_ , he thought to himself. Castiel sunk into the mattress and pulled the blankets up his chest, Dean shifting closer until they were pressed together at every angle, Dean quiet in his hold. And he swore, before he closed his eyes, he heard Dean whisper an apology in his ear.

 


	2. Preacher's Daughter

The absence of the constant pitter-patter of rain above his head startled Dean awake the following morning, the blackness of the bedroom seeping into his field of vision and obscuring the shelves on the walls, the Angel above his head one of the only sources of illumination. Bright light shone through the bottoms of the drawn blinds and beneath the door, occasional shadows breaking through the latter. Someone was up. Someone not him. Beside him, the sheets had gone cold hours before, the indentations of both Castiel’s and Sam’s bodies long gone from his mattress.

On the wall in the faint light, the white wooden hands on the cuckoo clock pointed to 10:06. The first day back from lying on a cot for a week straight, and he _slept in_. Not that it mattered anyway; he had no place to be.

Sam was laying on his front on the living room floor when Dean emerged from his bedroom, head propped up in his tiny hands and eyes glued to the television, some show about dogs and which ones made suitable pets on the screen. To his surprise, Castiel was still there, seated in one of the armchairs with the Saturday edition of the Albany Herald in his hands, glasses pushed up his nose, dressed in a plain gray shirt and a pair of black sweatpants. “Made yourself at home, didn’t ya?” Dean yawned, sitting on the end of the couch and lying lengthwise across it, crossing his pajama-clad legs at the ankle. “You pay the cable bill?”

“This morning.” Castiel lowered the top of his newspaper, glancing over at Dean, the light from the sun shining through the open window reflecting off his glasses. “Suits are much too warm for my tastes, especially in this weather,” Castiel said in reply, turning back to his paper. “My siblings think the contrary, though.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Dean joshed. “Looked like you were ‘bout to burn up yesterday.”

“Your home has remarkable air conditioning. I’m impressed.”

“Should be.” Dean stretched his arms above his head, biting back another yawn. “Got a new one last year, one’a those Carrier things that’s s’pposed to last forever. Thing’ll freeze you out.”

“It’s better than what we had _before_ ,” Sam chimed in, legs kicking back and forth in the air. “One time a bird made a nest and it caught fire.”

“That’s…” Castiel dropped his hands to his lap, paper wrinkling in his grasp. “…How did _that_ happen?”

Dean shrugged. “Weather was nice one spring, ‘n then summer came and we fired it up, and _foosh_.” Dean exaggerated a rush of flames with his hands and the sound of crackling timber, noting Castiel’s quirked eyebrow. “What? The bird wasn’t _in_ there.”

“I’d certainly hope not.” Finally, Castiel folded the newspaper and set it on the side table, turning his attention fully to Dean. “Do you want breakfast?”

Now that he mentioned it, he _was_ hungry; that feeling had all but gone numb in the last few weeks, until yesterday and the best dinner he had ever put in his mouth, next to his mother’s pie. He still had the recipe somewhere, he guessed, probably jammed in one of the numerous cookbooks on the bookshelf by the back door. They had served a purpose at one point, crammed full of original recipes and things she had printed off the Internet to try. Some were major hits with her family and the congregation; some never made it past the dinner table. Sam still held some of her healthier meals as his favorites. Dean was more partial to her meatloaf than anything. Maybe he needed to find that book one afternoon.

He accepted Castiel’s offer and padded after him across the carpet, stopping briefly in the split doorway to look back at Sam, asking, “You gonna be okay in there?”

“He’s been watching that since eight,” Castiel said, casual, alternating between looking through the refrigerator and the pantry for flour and eggs and whatever else was on his seemingly never-ending list of ingredients. “I doubt he’s listening anymore.”

“Could never pull that rugrat away from the TV,” Dean said, shaking his head and pulling out a chair. “He wants a dog _real_ bad. Can barely take him out in town without him wantin’ to stop by the pet store. But we never had the money, and dogs are _expensive_. Closest he’s got to a pet is Jody’s Doberman down the street, ‘n she only comes over when she gets loose from the backyard.”

“Is that safe?” Dean caught the stare Castiel gave him, now backed up against the counter with a mixing bowl in hand, idly stirring the contents.

“She’s a sweetie,” Dean said with a mild smile, looking down at the blue plaid vinyl tabletop. “Totally harmless. Unless you got drugs on ya, then she’ll rip your arm off.”

Castiel shook his head, fighting back a laugh. “Have you seen this from experience?”

“Nah.” Dean waved him off. “Though, Jody’s come over once ‘r twice and told us ‘bout the guy she arrested the night before. Never thought a sheriff’d have that many stories.”

Castiel nodded and turned back to the stove, taking the washed and dried frying pan from the sink and setting it back on the burner. “Does she live close by?”

“She’s in that brick house to the right of our road, got a really nice yard, tire swing out front too.” He looked up to the ceiling, slumped back in his chair. “Used to play over there as a kid, if you’d believe that. She was real good friends with dad ‘n Bobby.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence interrupted occasionally by the sound of a bark on the television in the other room or testimonial voiceovers. Castiel left three pancakes to fry in the pan while he retrieved a package of bacon from the refrigerator and placed them in a separate pan on a different eye. When had he even had time to go to the Harveys again, anyway? Did he take Sam with him? Or had he left him in the bed while he shopped? It wouldn't do much to ask, as long as there was food in the pantry and the lessening risk of either him or Sam starving another day. Loath to admit it, he could get used to Castiel being around.

Especially if he kept cooking like he did. “Dude, you gotta start a recipe book,” he said between mouthfuls of pancake, stabbing at the strips of bacon on his plate and shoving portions into his mouth. “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

“I had to teach myself.” Castiel rummaged through the shelf in the corner and pulled down three red-and-white checkered books placing them on the table next to his seat. “It was either that or eating fast food or at restaurants every day. I was the only one that didn't attempt to set the kitchen on fire.”

Dean snorted, poking at his half-stack of pancakes. “Y’know… I really thought you were gonna be a total dick. Throw me out on my ass, tell me to get my life together. …But you’re in here cookin’ me _pancakes_ and you paid my _cable bill_. …You ain’t like other Angels, are you?”

“Think of us as your… celestial cousins, if you will,” Castiel shrugged. He traced a nail over Mary’s printed handwriting in the laminated pages of one of the cookbooks, reading something about lasagna. “We’re more alike than you think. I’m not particularly high up in the Spheres to warrant much merit, but…” He looked up to the glass-paned wall cabinet hanging behind Dean’s head, eyes distant. “…I’ve always liked helping people.”

“So’re you helpin’ me just ‘cause you gotta?” He finished off the last of his bacon, watching Castiel roll his eyes.

“ _No_ , Dean,” Castiel said, huffing a bit. “I’m here because I _want_ to be. I pick which cases I want to take on, I’m not assigned to them.”

Dean grunted and sat back, folding his arms across his chest. Castiel reached across to take his empty plate and fork, washing them off in the sink and setting them in the dishwasher, starting the cycle. “You’re gettin’ yourself into more trouble than it’s worth,” Dean muttered. “Nothin’s ever gonna be the way it was before.”

“That may be true, but I’d like to help you through it.” The sudden warmth to his shoulder startled him, Castiel’s hand pressed gently over the fabric of his pajama shirt. “You deserve good things, Dean, whether you believe it or not.”

He didn't get a chance to reply; a knock to the front door overshadowed the hitch in his breath, leaving him sitting in the kitchen with an Angel and Sam running to the door, swinging it open without a second thought. He really needed to teach him to look out of the side window once in a while. “Dean, Jody’s here with Alexandra!” his brother called out, ecstatic. “And she’s got a puppy!”

Oh _great_. That was all he needed, another animal for Sam to absolutely fall in love with. His brother was already out the front door and on the porch by the time he and Castiel made it out of the kitchen, finding Sam with a lapful of black-and-orange Doberman licking his face, Alexandra’s owner sitting in one of the steel patio chairs, donning her usual black uniform, brown bangs parted to the side with the rest pulled back in a ponytail, the hat in her lap currently holding the smallest puppy Dean had ever _seen_ , barely able to open its eyes.

“Was startin’ to wonder when you’d get home, Dean,” the officer—Jody Mills— said with a smile, scratching the puppy between its ears, its squeak barely audible over its mother bowling Sam over onto his back and sitting with her head on his chest. Dean nodded and stepped out of the doorway, Castiel following and taking a spot on the glider beneath the window. Jody _grinned_ at Castiel, practically pleased with herself— _why_? “Well I shoulda known you’d be here, Castiel,” she said, amused. She _knew_ him? “You’re the only guy in town that’d drive that POS you got parked out front.”

Castiel just smiled and shook his head. “As long as she runs, I’m perfectly happy with her.”

“ _Wait_ ,” Dean interjected, eyes wide and darting between the two of them. “You two—know each other?”

Castiel nodded; Jody answered for them both. “My department knows most of the Angels in the courts, and Cassie here’s pretty much the only one that’s _not_ a total assbag.” She paused to wink, the puppy mewling in her lap. “You’re in good hands with him, Dean. And I swear,” she turned to Castiel, pointing a stern finger at his face, “if you so much as _hurt_ him—.”

“I swear,” Castiel asserted, holding up his hands, eyes wide in sudden panic. Dean chuckled and shook his head, glancing down at Sam, now engaged in a staring contest with Alexandra, her tongue lolling out of her mouth in the midafternoon heat. “You know I would never, Ms. Mills.”

“Damn straight,” she chirped. Her eyes finally switched to Dean, a small smile on her lips, dangerously close to pitying. “How’re you holding up, Dean?”

He swore, if he had a dime for every person that asked him that in the last three months. Was that all they wanted out of him, to ask how he was dealing? How he couldn't escape the nightmares at night, how he had forgotten what hunger felt like, how he hated himself for having to throw himself into harm’s way just to feed the one person he cared about? How was he supposed to answer that? “I’m fine,” he lied, eyes to the porch floor, bare foot toeing at a knot in the boards. “Got stuck with the one Angel that knows how to cook, so I guess that’s a plus.”

He couldn't exactly make out Castiel’s expression after that, caught somewhere between dejection and amusement. “Well, it’s good you’re up on your feet again,” Jody said. “Me and Alex were startin’ to worry about you downtown, and Claire hasn’t seen Sammy in almost two weeks.”

 _You could’ve at least paid my bail, then_. Dean sat at Castiel’s side on the porch, petting Alexandra’s head when she trotted over to prop her snout on his knee, hazel eyes looking up at him in sympathy, closing each time he scratched between her eyes. Sam kneed his way over to sit at Dean’s hip, petting long strokes down the dog’s back, her stubbed tail thumping every time he pulled his hand away. “Can Claire come over tomorrow after church?” Sam asked, looking up at Jody, hair in his eyes. Dean _really_ needed to take him to the barber. “Kevin gave me a new toy car. I wanted to show her.”

Jody nodded, lifting her eyebrows in Dean’s direction. “Why not now? I mean, if Dean’s willing. They’re both home today since I’m at the station all afternoon. What d’you say to that?”

Dean nodded, initially hesitant. “I… Yeah, that’ll work.” He rubbed the back of his neck, keeping his eyes to his crossed feet. “I need t’go get my car from the impound and go clean the church, ‘nyway.”

He ignored Castiel’s glance and Jody’s incessant stare, aware that even Sam was looking at him, all probably wearing some sort of worried expression—even the _dog_ , with her pleading eyes and pathetic wag of her tail, practically begging him to let them care for him. Castiel patted his shoulder and let it linger, Alexandra’s eyes locked on the Angel’s. “Dean, can I talk to you inside for a minute?” Jody asked, words clipped. He knew that tone; hurriedly, he straightened his back and stood, both Alexandra and Sam watching him make his way to the front door, disappearing behind the screen, Jody on his heels with her puppy-filled hat in hand. Castiel could watch Sam for two minutes; as long as his brother didn't fall off the porch and into the hedges, they would be fine.

The door hadn’t been closed for more than two seconds before Jody jammed her finger into his back, forcing him to spin around despite protests. “What the _hell_ , Jody—.”

“No, what the _hell_ yourself, Dean!” With her free hand, she covered the puppy’s ears and kept her voice hushed, her brows pulled into a tight furrow. “You disappear for a week and you don't bother to _call_ me? I had to find out from Donna that you were in lockup and your brother wasn’t even at _Bobby’s_! Do you know how _irresponsible_ that is?”

Despite the ferocity of her words, he couldn't bring himself to look away from her eyes, narrowed in the dimmed light of the living room, ceiling fan rotating overhead. She wasn't supposed to care—she was just supposed to be their neighbor; her kids were supposed to watch Sam when he couldn't drag himself out of bed, while he tried and failed to work at whatever job he could find. “What the hell else was I supposed to _do_? You heard the will! I got _nothin_ ’ here to my name and I can’t get a decent job on my _life_ , you expect me to just sit here on my ass and _pray_ that somethin’ll fall in my lap?”

“I _expect_ you to stop feeling sorry for yourself and stop getting your ass arrested!” She tapped her foot on the rug, the puppy mewling under her hand. “Just because your father didn't bother to leave you anything doesn't mean you have to resort to—this! You could’ve come to any of us for help! What would your _brother_ think?”

“I don’t care what he thinks,” Dean growled, hands shaking at his sides. “I’m doing this for him, I’m doing _everything_ I _can_ for him, and that's all that matters! I don’t need yours or anyone’s help, and I don’t need _you_ or Cas over there or anyone tellin’ me different!”

“That’s where you’re wrong, _young man_.” Jody took a step forward, backing Dean up a step. “’Cause as far as I’m concerned, if you’re not planning to do the right thing—.”

“You wouldn't.” Whatever was left of his anger was replaced with abject fear at Jody’s words, his knees threatening to buckle from shock. “You wouldn't—you _can’t_ —.”

Jody shook her head, reaching up to cup Dean’s cheek, thumbing away the wetness betraying his eyes. “Look… Can’t and won’t are two different things, Dean. I know Sam means the world to you, but you can’t _do_ this, to him _or_ yourself.”

Dean huffed, eyes to the floor. “Cas said the same thing,” he murmured, quiet. Jody let her hand rest on his shoulder, warm through the fabric of his shirt. “…Do you really think I should trust him?”

She smiled at him, genuine this time. “Out of all the Angels, I’m glad it’s him.” She didn't give him the chance to reply, instead a flash of remembrance crossing her face. “I forgot, and actually, this is why I came.” From her hat, she scooped up the dozing puppy with her free hand and held it out to him, barely fitting in both of his palms. “We gave away most of Alexandra’s puppies last weekend, and Alex and Claire’ve been taking care of this little one since his mama hasn’t paid much attention to him, but we were wondering if y’all would like to keep him?”

 _What_? He watched her, expression blank, the puppy worming its way around in his cupped hands, squeaking and mouthing at his thumb, little teeth sharp enough to sting. She couldn't really be asking that, could she? Jody knew what their financial situation was; she didn't have to offer. She didn’t _need_ to. “You’re—Jody, you know we _can’t_ —.”

“We still have a couple bags of food left over from the others, so you don’t need to worry about feeding him for now,” she added, tucking her hat under her arm. “All I’m saying is, when you get yourself straightened out, we’ll still be here, and so’ll he. Plus, it’ll give Sam someone to play with, and if he’s anything like his mom, he’ll go through Hell and high water to keep you safe. So?” She motioned to the puppy, now cradled against his chest, a wet spot growing where its mouth gnawed at the thin fabric of his shirt. “What d’ya say?”

“I…” He knew in his mind that he had every right to say no—he had neither the money nor time to deal with such a small animal, between getting Sam to school and whatever Castiel was going to be dragging him off to do in the foreseeable future, to whether or not he decided to relapse and bleed out on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night. But Claire and Alex were already taking care of the puppy as it was—would they really go out of their way to keep going, knowing it was for someone else?

And what would the _puppy_ do? Jody wasn't exactly home all the time and both Alex and Claire were at school from morning until late afternoon, leaving no one to care for it for the majority of the day; even Alexandra, who had barely even acknowledged the creature’s existence in the few minutes they had been there. Probably the runt, if its size were any indication; it would have died within days of its birth if it weren’t for the daughters. He couldn't just _leave_ him there—even if he had to take on the responsibility half of the time…

Jody cocked an eyebrow at him, foot tapping again. “…Fine,” he conceded, petting down the puppy’s back. “But _don’t_ tell Sammy. You’ll never get ‘im outta your house if you do.”

“ _There’s_ my boy.” Jody drew him into a quick hug and attempted to take the puppy from him, Dean drawing back enough to separate them.

“Can I just…” He stopped to pet his head, burnt orange eyes finally opening to stare up at him, blinking slowly in recognition. This dog would be the death of him, he already knew. “I wanna name him Jasper.”

“That’s a nice name,” Jody said, soft. “You sure you’re gonna be alright?”

He nodded after a breath, fighting the tremor in his voice when he finally spoke. “I… I’ll be fine.”

-+-+-+-+-+-

Human fascination with religion would never cease to amaze him, Castiel thought to himself in the middle of a one-room church on the outskirts of Leesburg, his feet crossed underneath a wooden pew, hands folded in his lap. All the years they had inhabited the earth, and societies were still run by religion and faith, no matter if they wanted to acknowledge it or not. Years before, the Angels were treated as royalty after their arrival, given special positions within church spaces and even catered to, until the high wore off and the imminent fear of the Rapture faded away, leaving only the lesser ranking of his siblings behind to live their lives amongst humanity, for the most part assimilating into society.

The Southern states still held that sense of enamor towards them, especially children. Dean wasn’t even born when the second wave arrived, taking the place of the older Angels that wished to return to Heaven, reigniting the spark they started fifty years before. Humanity had changed since then, technology advancing faster than his kind could comprehend, social climates growing more accepting with the passing week. But to him, it may as well have been the day he walked into Phoebe Putney Memorial Hospital and watched a man and woman admire their sleeping child in front of a pane of glass, their souls the happiest he had ever had the chance to witness.

They were gone now—in their stead, their son was at the front of his father’s church, finishing up vacuuming the choir pit and rolling up the long length of cord to drape along the back of the aging machine. “Y’don't gotta sit there all day,” Dean called out, leaving the vacuum to walk through each of the twenty pews, putting misplaced hymnals and cardboard fans back in their holders on the seat backs. Above them, the lights on the ceiling fans were shut off, blades worn with constant summer use. “You’ve been starin’ at the altar for the past ten minutes.”

Making his way to stand, Castiel left his pew and walked to the front of the church, hands in his jean pockets. “What denomination was your father?” he asked, ascending the three steps to the three choir pews and the podium, standing behind it to look out at the rest of the room.

“Baptist,” Dean answered, switching to the other side and working his way up to the front. “Lotta people are in this town, don’t think they really know anything different.”

Castiel pursed his lips in thought. “What about you?”

Dean glanced up from the fifth row, two torn fans in hand, in the other, a hymnal on its last legs. “Y’gonna do anything if I say somethin’ you don’t like?”

Castiel chuckled, lowering his head. “I doubt anything you say will change my opinion of you.”

With a shrug, he watched Dean finish the last few rows before seating himself in the front pew, tattered objects at his side. Castiel walked to join him, sitting a marginally respectable distance away, their knees threatening to touch. “Seein’ as _you_ ’re sittin’ here, can’t really say I _don't_ ,” Dean started; Castiel watched his hands fidget in his lap, toying with a loose thread in his pant leg. “But there’s a difference between seein’ and believing, y’know? Y’all’ve been around since my parents were born, but no one’s ever really answered where you came from. And I sure as _hell_ know God ain’t listenin’ to anything I got to say.”

He didn't bother to interrupt the boy, simply listening as his voice deepened in his anger, heel beginning to tap the blue carpet at their feet. “It’s just… I prayed, Cas. I hate the church and everything it stands for, but I _prayed_ that Bobby’d find them alive, that they’d come back and we’d all go home and pretend like nothin’ happened. Like they didn’t drive off a fuckin’ embankment and _drown_. They just…” He bent over to rest his elbows on his knees, covering his eyes with one hand; Castiel let his hand hover over his shoulder before stroking it down his back in sympathy, Dean’s skin warm through his shirt. “C’mon,” Dean said after a steadying sigh, standing. “Gotta clean up the nursery out back.”

Castiel followed Dean through one of the two exits, walking into the back of the church past the baptism pool and storage room into the daylight again, the sun’s rays blocked by the awning over their heads, linking the red-bricked building to a white-painted trailer, about three quarters the size of Dean’s own. Dean unlocked the door with the key from his pocket and allowed Castiel in first, the smell of Lysol and flowery air freshener almost overpowering. Split into three parts, the main room consisted of a kitchen and larger dining area, along with an empty space for possible parties. Pink carpet lined the floors of the three converted bedrooms, two used as Bible study rooms for the Sunday school classes, another littered with children’s toys and a crib, a walkie talkie and a radio sitting on the only desk backed up to the window.

“I stopped goin’ to Dad’s services after I turned fifteen,” Dean admitted, reaching down to gather up discarded blocks and Ringamajigs, picking up a few with his toes. “Started takin’ care of the kids instead, ‘n I’d use the walkie to listen so I’d know when it was gettin’ to be time to pack up.” He laughed a bit, shaking his head as he dropped the blocks into their designated box, the stacking circles in the next crate. “He didn’t really ‘ppreciate it that much, but ‘s long as I watched Sammy, he was fine with it.”

Castiel sat along the wall and crossed his ankles, one hand absently toying with the bead maze at his hip. “How many children do you watch regularly?”

Dean looked up to the ceiling in thought, counting something on his fingers. “On a good day? Three or four at the most. Ruby had her baby back in May so I’ve been takin’ care of her on Sunday and Wednesdays, too. Even if it’s just for an hour or two, she really appreciates me gettin’ her outta her hair.”

“Have you ever thought about having one of your own?”

Dean sputtered at that, dropping a wooden block and catching it before it hit his foot. “Dude, _no_.” He attempted to laugh it off, Castiel furrowing his brow in confusion. “Just… not right _now_ , anyway. Might be nice, but that’s a _long_ way down the road. Sammy’s enough of a handful as it is, always gettin’ into trouble somehow someway.” Floor cleared, he sat with a thud, sprawling out on his back in the middle of the room with his eyes to the ceiling. “Kids’re just… I wish we didn't learn from our parents.”

Castiel nodded, unsure. “You’re… scared of becoming like your own?”

“Wouldn't you?” Dean turned his head to him, sunlight reflecting across green irises. “I mean… Dad was no saint, no matter how much all these people here thought he was the second coming, but… I never wanted to turn out like that.” He swallowed and eyed the ceiling fan again, breath rattling in his chest. “Between the… He wasn’t a bad guy, but he was… ‘old fashioned.’” _Oh_. Castiel sat up straighter at the admission, fingers rigid at his sides on the floor. “Got real mad when I didn't do what he said or let Sammy get hurt, ‘n God forbid my grades weren’t up to his standards. Always made it so no one’d see anything, either.”

“Dean…”

“It’s just…” Dean stopped to bite his lip, eyes pointedly locked on one of the crib posts. “What if I do the same thing with Sammy? I feel like one day I’ll just… He’s a good kid, Cas. He’s so smart and just… What if I fuck up? I’m all he’s got, what if he realizes how messed up I am?”

“You’re not your father, Dean.” Without hesitance, Castiel kneed over to Dean as he sat up, drawing the boy into his arms, Dean twisted at an awkward angle in his grasp. Castiel shut down his attempted reply with a hand to his hair, stroking through the strands. “What he did is inexcusable, but you can’t let that define you. You love Sam. You’d never hurt him.”

“But dad loved me too,” Dean said, voice breaking into a quiet sob against his shoulder, hands clutching tight to his shirt. “He did, and I did too, but… How can you do that to your kid?” Castiel just let him cry into his shoulder, quiet noises he felt more than heard. “Why’d He take them from me, man? Why’d He…”

“I don’t know.” Castiel closed his eyes and held him tighter, ignoring the pain in his knees and the threads of his shirt weakening in Dean’s grip. “I wish I knew, Dean.”

-+-+-+-+-+-

Sam was asleep by ten that evening, out cold with his stuffed Retriever cuddled in his arms and hair covering majority of his face; Dean left the door ajar to his room, the night light plugged into the wall lighting up the floor nearest the closet, enough to be visible at every angle. Belatedly he felt Castiel lingering in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while Dean watched Sam through the crack in the door, hands antsy at his sides, aching for something to hold on to. “I won him that dog last year,” Dean whispered, looking over his shoulder at Castiel, sorrow in his eyes. “Startin’ to think he likes it more than me.”

Castiel smiled a bit, expression heavy. “He loves it because it’s from you,” he said, and Dean nodded, finally leaving the door to stand at Castiel’s side. Dean shouldn't have trusted him—still, Castiel’s hand on his shoulder left him feeling lighter, left him pushing back to meet the touch, revel in the power of it, the calm it brought him. Only two days in, and he already _liked_ the guy. “Do you have any blankets?”

“What?” Dean blinked, watching innocence dance across Castiel’s face, the back of his head bathed in the light from the lone streetlamp streaming through the open kitchen window. “They’re in the chest in the back bedroom, why—?”

“There’s something I’d like for us to do.” Castiel looked to the back door, hands in his pockets. “When was the last time you went stargazing?”

“I—.” He stopped, transfixed—how long _had_ it been? Certainly before Sam was born, when he and John were still on amicable terms and Bobby let him stay over for a week while his parents went upstate. He had snuck out after Bobby turned in for the night, slipping out the back door with a beach towel and past the pool, spreading out his makeshift blanket in a clearing beneath the black sky, the moon as his guide back home, stars streaking across the abyss. He made it twenty minutes before night consumed him, waking in the dew-coated grass with Bobby staring down at him and a stray cat curled on his chest.

Arguably, not one of his most memorable experiences to date.

“Been a couple years,” Dean said. Castiel followed him to his parents’ bedroom, Dean pulling a quilt from the top shelf in the closet and handing it off to him. “Never’ve been able to stay awake. Think the quiet gets to me.”

“Hopefully I’ll be of some entertainment, then,” Castiel chuckled. “The Perseids peaked a few days ago, but if we’re lucky, we may be able to see a few shooting stars.”

A meteor shower wasn't exactly how he envisioned spending his Saturday night. Preferably, he would have been asleep by now, passed out to the world and dreaming incoherent memories, always forgotten by the morning, always leaving him like something was missing. Yet, he followed Castiel into the yard and left the back door light on, treading barefoot into the grassy yard under the dark sky. In the distance, a truck drove past, oblivious to anything on the side of the road, let alone an Angel spreading a quilt out along the edge of the field.

They didn't speak at first, Dean finding his place on the left side of the blanket, Castiel situating himself on the right, hands folded on his stomach. Castiel looked like he belonged there under the stars, blue eyes upturned, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. “You’re really not like everyone else, are you?” Dean asked, quiet, folding his hands behind his head.

Castiel let out a breath, eyes blinking closed. “I’ve been told I… care too much,” he admitted, solemn. “That it’s one of my faults. We’re supposed to be unbiased and dedicated to our job, but… At some point, it’s hard _not_ to look at someone and wonder how they’re feeling. What their life is like, if they’re happy with themselves.” A pause. “Looking at you, knowing your story, the Angel’s would’ve thought you were a lost cause. They would have done whatever they could to complete their contract and left you to fall back into the same pit I found you in.”

Dean swallowed, ignoring the wetness that soaked into his hairline. _No one cared…_? “So why d’you…?”

“Why did I bother?” Dean nodded in the darkness, looking over to find Castiel watching him, a glow illuminating his eyes. “I… feel something, when I look at you, that I haven’t seen in any of my other clients. You think the world is fighting you, and you believe it, but you want more. You want it to mean something. There’s a spark in you that tells me you want to _live_. And I want to help you, in any way I can.”

“Oh.” Dean faced the stars again, barely able to see the dots floating in the abyss through the tears blurring his vision. Castiel was right—and Dean hated to admit it, hated that he had fallen that low to warrant such attention, need the affection of a complete stranger to drag him out of his own personal Hell and _save_ him, however he planned. “’M sorry you gotta deal with a fuck up like me, then,” he attempted to laugh, covering his eyes with his arm.

Castiel pulled it away, leaning up enough to thumb an eye dry, wiping his tears on the quilt. “You’re not a burden, Dean,” he whispered; Dean wished he could believe it. “Even if no one believes in you, if you yourself don't, _I_ will.”

He huffed a laugh, hating how his voice wavered, how weak he felt. “Gonna take a lot for you to convince me I’m worth it.”

“I’m willing to try if you are.”

It was such a human statement, his dedication, perseverance—it shouldn't have warmed his heart like it did. Dean watched the sky in lieu of a reply, Castiel humming a near-silent tune at his side as the first trail of white streaked the sky, disappearing beyond the treetops. If he fell asleep five minutes later, then at least he had someone to carry him inside.

-+-+-+-+-+-

Sunday passed without incident, Dean having driven the now-trio to the eleven o’clock service and back home an hour later, the rest of the time being spent sleeping off lunch on the couch with Jasper burrowed against his chest, Sam and Claire in the yard with Jody and Castiel watching them from the porch, and Alex texting from the armchair on the other side of the room. For the most part, the afternoon crawled by, Dean waving off his neighbors after dinner and putting Sam to bed.

All too soon, silence enveloped his home again, the noise of crickets and frogs from the pond down the road permeating the thin walls of the trailer. Castiel was too busy turning off the lights in the living room to take notice of them or Dean’s presence, bathing the room in darkness, the lone streetlight on their lot filtering in through the closed blinds. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are,” Castiel commented, turning to face him, eyes almost glowing in the diffused light. “Are you alright?”

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, leaning against the interior door in a failing attempt to hide. “It’s—It’s nothing, forget I was here.”

“Dean.” His heart threatened to seize at the sound of his name in such a pleading tone, too warm to his senses. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

He nodded, knowing the Angel couldn't see him, like it would make it easier to admit. “It’s just… I dunno, I feel stupid sayin’ it.”

Across the room, he heard Castiel sigh. “…If you need someone to talk to, you know I’m always available.”

“’S not just talkin’ right now.” With a huff, he pushed himself off the door and treaded into the living room, shuffling his feet across the carpet. “I—You’re my _Guardian_ , or whatever the hell that means, ‘n I know you don’t need to deal with my crap—.”

Castiel repeated his name, softer this time, outstretching a hand in the empty air between them. “You can’t sleep, can you?”

Another shake of the head—he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks, plagued by images behind his eyelids and impossible realities that kept him clutching the bed sheets at all hours, waiting for the morning sun to rise. It was probably a miracle he hadn’t had a stroke yet. “It’s… Everything’s too loud,” was his answer. _Everything_ was loud, the voices in his head failing to quiet down.

He shuddered at the feeling of Castiel’s hand sliding down his arm, over his shirtsleeve, cupping his scarred wrist. “Come.”

At some point during the night, after curling up under the blankets of his former bed and Castiel shutting off the light, he fell asleep to the sounds of rhythmic breathing and what he could only discern as the rustle of feathers and the faint ringing of wind chimes, originating amidst the blanket of shadows that hung over his head. He woke somewhere after four, the cuckoo clock in the corner tapping out a weak rhythm, the chime mechanism removed long ago. At his side, Castiel was still dozing, wrinkling his nose every time a bird chirped in the yard opposite theirs, growing in frequency the closer the sun came to rising.

“You have very noisy neighbors,” Castiel finally mumbled, the white noise that surrounded him ceasing the second he opened his eyes, glowing bright blue, unchecked for a brief second.

Dean hid his smile in his pillow, huffing a quiet breath into the down. “Neighbors ‘cross the street used to shoot at ‘em before they moved. ‘S just an empty lot now.”

“Pity.” He could still feel Castiel watching him even through his eyelids, warm breath gracing his cheek across the gap. “I don’t see how you can get used to it.”

“Beats the frogs,” Dean yawned. “Fuckers get in the house when the pond’s high, climb up through the pipes.”

Castiel blinked at him. “I’ll be sure to check before I shower then.” The room lapsed into a silent pause, the sound of wind chimes starting again; Castiel reached across to touch the scar on his wrist, sleep-warmed fingers tracing over the vertical line. “How often do you cry in your sleep?”

 _Oh great_ —the one thing he feared out of this, having someone warm to sleep by so that he _didn't_ have nightmares, and they found out anyway. He turned away, willing himself to relax, to slow his breathing. “It’s…” He swallowed, looking to Castiel half-lidded. “I see things, sometimes. Shit that won’t happen but it just… It feels real. Like I’m gonna wake up and my life’s gonna be normal, or ‘m gonna wake up alone.” He shuddered a sigh and rolled onto his stomach, tucking his hands beneath his pillow, away from Castiel’s calming touch. “What about you? What do Angels dream about? Flying sheep?”

Castiel snorted on the other side of the bed and pushed himself up to sit, running both hands through his disheveled hair. “It’s not… dreams, per se. It’s more like… white noise and colors.”

Dean stared, cockeyed. “So you trip out?”

“ _No_ , no.” Tugging the string on the side lamp, he watched Castiel palm his eyes, the faint light from the angel statuette illuminating the vast expanse of black ink dying the back of his arms. When had _that_ gotten there? “Though I guess it could be misconstrued as—.”

“Dude, you got tattoos?” In a flurry of limbs and sheets, Dean sat up and tugged Castiel’s arm towards him, eyeing what looked to be a wing stretching down the back of his bicep to his elbow, disappearing beneath his nightshirt, shaded in what had to be hundreds of dollars of black and silver ink. How did that never come up in conversation before? “…You got _wing_ tats?”

“You see the irony, an Angel with wings etched into its skin,” Castiel joshed, lighthearted. Dean halted his attempt to pull his arm back, his fingers tracing the intricate lines of the tattoo, feeling each dip beneath the digits. Never in his life had he seen such an extensive work of art, each individual feather almost lifelike, tipped with whites and golds and faint streaks of blue, fanning out when his arms were stretched to full length.

 _Beautiful_ was the only word he could use to describe it. Vaguely, he remembered he was still touching his arm, fingers still tracing idle patterns over the feathers with Castiel watching over his shoulder. Dean flushed, pulling away with an apology. “I’ve… never really seen tattoos up close before,” he admitted, sheepish; Castiel smiled in sympathy. “Never been allowed to, really.”

“Religion shouldn't restrict what you do to your body,” Castiel said. “Your skin is your own, you should do with it what you want. Are you interested?”

“In what, ink?” Dean shrugged, stretching his arms above his head and holding back a moan. “Thought about it, but I’ve never had the cash and I wouldn’t’ve been able to hide it.”

Castiel pursed his lips, fingers tapping on the bedspread. “If you’re ever interested, I could take you to my artist. He’s relatively inexpensive and specializes in hyperrealism.”

Dean hummed something of an affirmation and flumped back into a pillow, sighing deep. Castiel was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, shaking his head every few seconds, lost in thought. “What time is it?” Dean asked, tone neutral—anything to shake off the awkwardness of the moment.

Castiel squinted at the cuckoo clock, head cocking at an angle. “Four… forty? What time do you normally wake Sam?”

 _Crap_ , that was right—Monday. Sam had school today. At least he had gotten the Impala back in one piece, no thanks to the man at the impound lot that _insisted_ his car had never been brought in, despite the paperwork saying otherwise. After all, John’s name was still on the title until he could get it switched over. He even had gas too, enough to last him a week or more at the most, depending on where Castiel planned on dragging him. Hopefully not out of town or anywhere near the highways.

“Somewhere ‘round six,” he groaned, rolling onto his stomach and stretching again, touching the tips of his fingers to the headboard. “Gotta get ‘im up and dressed, classes start at 7:30.”

Castiel winced through his teeth before lying back, groaning. “I’ll never understand the education system on Earth. What reason is there to torture children at this hour?”

“Hey, don’t be askin’ me,” Dean snarked back, face in his pillow. “Some sorta conspiracy, I swear. Get us used to wakin’ up at horrible hours so we can do the same thing when we get old. Can you see _me_ working corporate?”

“I think you’d look handsome,” Castiel remarked. Dean flushed from the sincerity in his voice, praying Castiel didn't notice the way his fingers twitched beside his head. “But no, I don't think you’re suited for a desk job.”

“Always wanted to be a mechanic,” he mumbled through the down feathers, waving in no particular direction. “Not just workin’ on ‘em, but makin’ new ones, y’know? Custom rods outta the scrap people abandon ‘round here. Saw an F100 in a barn the other day, owner just lettin’ it rust away, can you believe that?”

“It’s more practical to leave them than spend money to have them restored. Though, that could play into your favor if you enter into that field.” The last of Castiel’s words were lost in a yawn, not even bothering to finish his sentence. “Your father had a beautiful car.”

Turning away to face the door, Dean covered his eyes with his arm, ignoring the sound of Castiel shoving the covers away and padding around the room, presumably to rummage through the bookshelf. “D’you think this is weird?” He motioned to the bed and where Castiel had been laying, his spot still radiating warmth. “Us sleepin’ in the same bed…?”

“Not particularly,” Castiel admitted, plucking a paperback off the shelf and reading the back cover. “If it brings you comfort to be close to someone, I’m more than willing to share. Unless you feel uncomfortable?”

“No, no, it’s…” Dean smiled to himself, mostly to ease the tension. “I like it. I just didn’t know if it was… _weird_ , or anything.”

“It’s not.” Castiel rounded the bed and crawled back in, settling himself amongst the blankets, something about him upbeat, chipper despite it being four in the morning. “Are you planning to sleep again?”

Dean nodded, fighting and failing to hold back a yawn. “If you’re gonna be up, can you wake me in an hour ‘r so?”

A chuckle. “Sure.” He warmed to the feel of Castiel’s hand patting his shoulder at his side, drifting off to the sound of turning pages and the faraway tinkling of chimes.

By some miracle, Sam was already awake by the time Dean wandered out of his old room at six, sprawled out in front of the television watching infomercials with a blanket wrapped around him, half asleep. At least he didn't have to drag his struggling brother out of bed this time; Castiel probably would have laughed at them, or stood on the sidelines and grumbled something about needing coffee. Waking _either_ of them up was more of a chore than anything.

Thankfully, Sam went without a fight and, breakfast eaten and lunch packed, was in the back of the Impala by seven, Dean only having to try twice to get the engine to turn over. Castiel’s Continental was infinitely more practical until he managed to fix whatever was wrong with his own car, but it gave him solace in the knowledge that the Impala was his and not rusting in a scrap yard like it _could_ have been, if it weren’t written over to Bobby in the will, who subsequently turned it over to Dean without a second thought. His father was probably rolling in his grave, knowing his _irresponsible_ son was driving around a piece of American machinery with only a year’s worth of driving under his belt.

It was better than nothing, though. He parked in the lot of Kinchafoonee Primary fifteen minutes later with Castiel still in the passenger seat of the Impala, walking Sam inside and bending down to hug him, probably clinging too tight for comfort. “You don't have to walk in with me,” Sam whined once they broke apart, hands gripping the straps of his book bag tight.

Dean just ruffled his hair with a sad smile, fighting back the wave of emotion that struggled to break free. He hadn’t been there for Sam’s first day of second grade, hadn’t been able to drive him across town and drop him off; Instead, Mrs. Tran did the job for him while he sat in county lockup for a week, with nothing to do but sit and wait for a miracle. The sentencing had been a godsend, freeing him back into society, albeit with an Angel on his arm. Better than nothing. “No, but I want to.”

Sam feigned annoyance at Dean’s kiss to his hair, trying to smooth down the unruly locks. Eventually he turned to run into his classroom, waving before seating himself beside a kid he presumed to be Kevin, the two already enthusiastically chatting amongst each other like Dean wasn't standing outside the room.

Castiel was flipping through a manual of some sort when Dean returned, probably lost months ago under the seats and covered in who knew how much dust. He took a moment to compose himself before he spoke, the Angel barely paying him any mind once he started the engine, just enough for the air conditioner to take the mugginess out of the air. “I went here as a kid,” he started, thumping his head on the headrest. “He’s got one of my old teachers right now, you believe that? That someone’d still be teaching this long?”

“Some people enjoy it more than others,” Castiel offered, closing the manual and placing it in the glove box, bypassing folders and months-old ketchup packets. “It’s always inspiring to think about humans being thrilled to teach year after year, especially if their older students come back to see them. Have you talked with them recently?”

“Haven't gotten the chance.” Dean patted the steering wheel, running his fingers across the worn leather and gripping it tight. “It’s… I’ll get around to it, and they’ll probably be callin’ me after today but… I really don’t wanna have to explain it to them.” Castiel nodded his acknowledgement. “So, what’s your plan for today?”

“My—I was planning something?” What, had he _forgotten_ why he was in the car in the _first_ place? “I’m merely here to accompany you. You’re to find things to do for your service on your own, and I’m here to deliver guidance.”

Dean lifted an eyebrow in his direction. “…Now, why do I feel like that’s a load of bullshit?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “I can’t do _everything_ for you, Dean. I know it may be hard to fathom, but you’re capable of so many things. Do you enjoy taking care of children?”

“I—.” What did that have to do with anything? Of course he did—watching the toddlers at church was practically the highlight of his week, and despite Sam’s self-aware yet hyperactive nature on the best of days, acting as his surrogate father hadn’t been much of a change of pace in recent months, save for the minor crime spree. “I mean, yeah, but why—.”

“That’s something you can add to your list.” From a legal pad in the glove box, Castiel tore off a yellow lined page and handed it over to Dean, along with a ballpoint pen, ink almost dry. “You’ve been watching over the children at your church out of the kindness of your own heart, with no one telling you you had or _needed_ to. You clean for the parishioners without even expecting a thank you. You care for your brother with the force of two parents. That’s all _you_ , Dean.” He reached across the front seat to pat his shoulder, fingers lingering a bit too long, sliding down his shirtsleeve. “That’s the side of you that won’t change.”

He couldn't fight back the flush in his cheeks at the words, keeping his face turned to the driver’s side window. Castiel had only known him for three days, four at the most—had he really been paying attention _that_ much? Did he actually _care_ like he said? Or was it an act to get him to go through with his service so he could find another client? How many other humans did he do this with, plead his case and then cozy up to them, only to leave them behind once he was done? He shook his head—Castiel wasn't like that. At least, he hoped not.

“I honestly wish I could believe that,” Dean muttered after a long second, head lowered. Still, he took the pad and pen in hand and placed it on the steering wheel, scribbling out ‘List of Good Deeds’ across the top line, numbering ‘Cleaned church’ and ‘Watched church kids’ underneath. That was two—two, and he hadn’t even known. Was it really that easy? “So… I just help people? Even if they don’t want it?”

Castiel nodded. “It can be out in town or in your community, just something to ease a stranger’s burden. Volunteering is an idea, too. There are plenty of shelters in town, and the hospital too, if you’re interested.”

It was an idea, as much as he didn't want to admit it. Somehow, the thought of being forced into acts he would otherwise do on his own time was entirely unappealing—but Castiel hadn’t put him on a schedule. He could take as much time as he wanted—weeks, even months to finish the fifty he had been tasked with. But how long would the Angel put up with it? “This—this isn’t a problem with you?” he asked, quiet. “I mean… I don't wanna keep you around if you got other places to be—.”

The hand over his own left his heart blooming with unfamiliar emotions, heart pounding hard against his ribcage. “I have nowhere else to be,” Castiel replied, just as soft. “Working with you isn’t a burden in the slightest. In fact, I’ve enjoyed myself more in the last few days than I have in a long, _long_ while.” He smiled, pulling his hand back to rest on his own thigh, fingers tapping at his jeans. “There’s no where else I’d rather be right now.”

The ‘than with you’ went unspoken; still, he felt it in his soul, the words dangling into the precipice, never to be said aloud. His heart lifted at the thought, threatening to seize in sudden joy, the feel of being wanted, _needed_ , even if it were from a man he had never heard of until days before. “So, how ‘bout we find us somethin’ to do, huh?”

They found it in the form of a stalling car on their way to the west side of town, the tailpipe of the barely surviving mid-nineties Taurus smoking black; Dean heard the engine stall even with his windows up, the car sputtering to a stop in the emergency lane of Route 19, Dean pulling in behind him at a safe distance. “I’ll go see what’s up with him,” Dean said, unbuckling his seatbelt and looking in the rear view for passing cars, none reflecting in the mirror. “You—?”

“I’ll stay,” was Castiel’s reply.

Dean left him there with a nod and exited the Impala, the thud of his door slamming closed overshadowing the noise of the Taurus’ engine attempting to sputter to life. “That ain’t gonna do you any good,” he announced once he was in range; the words lodged in his throat at the sight of who was in the drivers seat. Brown eyes looked up at him in a mixture of shock and confusion, eyebrows raised high, mouth parted in a frown turned smile.

 _Junior year all over again_. “Well, if it isn’t _Dean_ Winchester,” the man chimed with enthusiasm, clapping his hands on the steering wheel. In his astonishment, Dean moved back enough for him to step out of his car, only to throw his arms around Dean’s neck. “Boy, am I glad to see _you_ of all people.”

“Aaron,” he choked out, patting his back pulling away, Aaron clearly excited about _something_. Certainly not the fact that his car was smoking from under the hood. “It’s—good to see you too. Really.”

Two years was long enough to get over a crush, right? At least, that was what he told himself all through junior—and subsequently senior—year, Aaron Bass starring in a number of his unmentioned fantasies and a few handsy make-out sessions behind the bleachers at Lee County High. Yet standing before him, Aaron had barely changed, a bit harder around the edges, his hair longer and swept to one side, his face probably stubbly to the touch if he reached out and— _No. Hands off, that’s in the past._

If Aaron held anything against him for their parting, he didn't show it. “What’ve you been doing lately? I’ve tried calling over the summer, but your line was dead.”

Dean sighed through his nose, palming the back of his neck; at some point, he needed to rehearse the spiel before discussing it. “My, uh… My folks died back in May, haven’t really gotten back to hooking up the phone again.”

Aaron’s mouth formed a sympathetic ‘o,’ features softening. “Oh, _man_. I wish I woulda known—.”

“It’s—It’s not really a big deal,” he lied; he knew Aaron didn't believe him for a second. “So, that hunk of shit still runnin’?”

“Until a minute ago,” Aaron groused, running a hand through his hair, sweat-damp strands sticking in every direction; it shouldn't have made Dean want to kiss him on the side of the highway. “She’s been stinking for the past few days, I just figured my cat got in the backseat again.”

“I can take a look, if you want?” Dean offered. “My uncle runs an auto repair shop downtown, I can call a wrecker and drive you, if you’re going anywhere?”

“Actually, I was just heading to work.” Aaron followed him around to the front end of the car, Dean popping the hood and waving back the last remnants of smoke that escaped. “I started last month at the Coors plant over by the WalMart, you know it?”

Dean nodded, absently listening to his friend chatter on while he checked the fuel pump, then the oil tank. “How long’s your Check Engine light been on?”

“It—hasn't?” Dean glanced up at him, dipstick in hand. “My dashboard’s pretty much been shit since last year, can’t really get up the cash to fix that _and_ everything else that's wrong with it.”

“Well, you’re out of oil, for one thing,” Dean pointed to the engine, mildly more frustrated with Aaron than the car—how could someone let that _happen_? Even to a piece of crap like that, there were some things people were supposed to _know_ to keep a check on. “And you’ve probably just turned your car into a lead weight.”

Aaron shoved both hands through his hair again, eyes on the engine, then back at Dean; he _really_ needed to stop doing… _everything_. “Oh _man_ … How much do you think this is gonna cost me?”

He actually laughed at that, wiping his hands on his pants. “Pretty sure you’re out more than this thing’s worth.”

His friend let loose a string of curses and stopped down the shoulder of the road a bit, blowing off whatever he needed to before he returned, hands on his hips. “So—you could get her towed in, right? Think your uncle’ll be able to fix it?”

Dean nodded, fighting back another lie; if Bobby could fix _this_ thing, it would be a miracle. “You got someone to pick you up this afternoon?”

“I—Yeah, I can get my dad to come. Can you get me to the brewery?”

Dean told him yes and walked back to the car for his phone, reaching in through the open window. Castiel eyed him in curiosity, one eyebrow raised. “Do you know him?”

“He’s—.” There was no use hiding it now, not when Castiel was probably in earshot of their entire conversation. He would find out anyway, right? Especially if… “He’s my ex.”

Castiel’s eyes widened at that, but he didn't speak a word, instead giving Dean a nod before he called Bobby, an expression he knew all too well. ‘ _We’ll talk about this later_.’


	3. Young and Wild

“So you’re—.”

“I’m bisexual.”

_This_ wasn't the conversation Castiel had planned to start the day with. If anything, they were supposed to have driven around town and find something remotely interesting to do, or maybe have gone to the mall to look for a job for Dean. Instead, they were sitting in the middle of Pearley’s Diner staring down two breakfast platters, Dean stuffing his face with hash browns and eggs, the sound of patrons around them drowning out anything potentially embarrassing being said. At least they had the air conditioning working this week, as compared to when Gabriel brought him in last Tuesday for lunch; he really needed to call his brother sometime.

“It’s not really somethin’ I talk about,” Dean said around a mouthful of biscuit, pointing his fork at Castiel. “I mean, it’s… It’s not really somethin’ _anyone_ talks about. Me and Aaron were the odd ones out, ‘n no one really caught on till fuckin’ Cole caught us rounding second behind the bleachers and threatened to rat. Shoulda broke his nose when I had the chance.”

Castiel stabbed at one of his slices of ham, more interested in watching Dean’s enthusiastic eating than his own plate; was he always that animated? “So you’re not out?” he asked, purely conversational. Dean grunted what sounded like a ‘no.’ Castiel didn't blame him, either—his circumstances would have been different if he had been born in the city, even in the suburbs, but here, so far out of the way of an influential city, he had no chance of acceptance, especially considering his involvement—or lack thereof—in the church.

“Told you, dad was a preacher,” Dean continued, finally slowing his pace enough to breathe. “One’a those hellfire and brimstone types, lived in his own world where nothin’ could hurt him. Sam was perfect and I was just…” He sighed, eyes downcast. “Never good enough, I guess. And I’m pretty sure tellin’ him woulda just sealed the deal.”

“What did your mother think?” Castiel questioned.

Dean’s head shot up—out of all the times they discussed his parents, Dean never mentioned his mother, or at least attempted to skirt her existence. But there were still touches of her lingering around the house: the delicate draperies over the furniture and windows, family portraits hung on the walls and over the television in the living room, even the books she had lined up on the shelves in the kitchen. Her presence still wafted from room to room, if Castiel paid attention long enough; he wondered if Dean had felt her yet.

Dean looked down to the table, pushing around the last of his grits, congealed in the lull of their conversation. “Do we really gotta talk about this right now?”

He didn't have to, by any means. But part of Castiel wanted to know, wanted to put a face to the name of the woman who had raised such a wonderful child, only to have him spiral into despair after her death. Certainly he could have survived if his father had been the sole person to pass, but his mother at the same time? Even the strongest of souls couldn't have borne that kind of loneliness, especially at his age. “I’d like to get to know her, if you’d want to talk about her,” Castiel offered, setting his fork aside. Food held no interest to him, now.

In compromise, Dean focused his attention on the window at their side, eyes to the parking lot; they shone with unshed emotion in the midmorning light, bright green standing out even more. “I loved her,” he admitted, fighting the tremor in his voice. “I loved her so _much_ , Cas. She’d always… She was always there after dad’d hit me, she’d always talk me down if I was overthinking things, she’d… I feel like she wouldn't’ve cared if I said I liked guys. She’d’ve stood by and supported me like she always had, and…” He stopped to pinch his eyes closed, exhaling long breaths to steady himself; Castiel tapped their shoes together, feeling Dean nudge back just as soft. “It _kills_ me, knowin’ she’s gone. Knowin’ she ain’t ever gonna be here, and that Sammy’s still in denial. Lil’ shit still thinks they’re comin’ back.”

Despite the complete agonized look Dean gave him, despite the shiver in his hands on the table and the tears in his eyes, Dean held himself together for the sake of saving face. They were in public; anywhere else, and he could have mourned in whatever way he pleased. Instead, Castiel touched their fingers together from across the table and let Dean keep on, words flowing freely from his mouth.

“And the more I think about it, I hate God for letting this happen. He’s supposed to be this… great figure, yet He lets wars happen, He destroys entire towns, He… He took my _parents_. And I wondered for a _long_ time, did I not do somethin’ right? Did I—was I not good enough? If I’d’ve listened to dad more, would they still be alive?”

“There was nothing you could’ve done,” Castiel said, solemn. “Nothing could’ve predicted what happened that day, not even God.”

“I know.” Dean wiped his eyes dry with the back of his hand, laughing to himself. “I’ve never been too much of a believer, but I sure as hell feel like I’ve sinned somewhere along the way.”

“You’re no more of a sinner than I am.” Castiel tapped their fingers together, watching Dean visibly brighten at the words, his eyes still red, hand still shivering in his reach. “Your brother… doesn’t know your parents are—?”

Dean shook his head, amending, “He knows, and we’ve had the whole… _death_ talk, but… He’s seven, he still believes in _Santa_. I guess it just hasn’t really hit him yet.” Clearing his throat, he wiped his hands off on his napkin and set his elbows on the table, staring Castiel down. “So, we’ve been talkin’ about me the past few days, let’s hear about you. What’s Mr. High and Mighty been up to before me?”

_Me_? Castiel gave him a cautious glance, words temporarily escaping him. What was there _to_ say? His life hadn’t exactly been the most interesting, especially in Heaven with the other Angels. The majority of his existence had been spent watching over humanity or talking his brothers out of arguments with each other, mostly involving Gabriel and Michael. Even taking on cases with the court system left him bored on most days, reading law texts written by humans with too much time on their hands, filing through folders’ worth of paperwork for Dougherty County and the outlying cities, trying to survive in the back of his car—was it even worth it anymore?

If only there were more people like Dean to give his life some sense of purpose. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific than that, I’m afraid.”

Dean propped his chin up in his hands, chewing his lower lip in thought; Castiel found himself watching absently, vaguely aware his hand was still stretched across the table, now flexing around air. “Okay, so we’ll go Twenty Questions style. What’s your favorite color?”

Castiel furrowed his brows. “I don’t see how that’s—.”

“C’mon, Cas, live a little! Give it to me, what’s your favorite color?”

Was that a requirement of him? No one had ever bothered to ask that question before, or anything personal about him save his employment or where he was at that exact moment. Angels didn’t have opinions or thoughts outside of their employment—what was he supposed to answer? “Green,” was the only thing that came mind.

Dean took that as answer enough. “You got any hobbies?”

“I—like flowers.” Dean frowned a bit, apparently confused. “We—Typically we’re so engrossed in our work, we don’t have time for hobbies. But… I kept a garden in the backyard, just flowers I picked up at the nursery when they were having a sale.”

He expected Dean to laugh at him—all the other Angels did, anyway. What made him any different? Dean did no such thing, though, simply smiling and nodding. “I think you and my mom would’ve gotten along.”

Head bowed, Castiel smiled, catching Dean’s chuckle across the table. “I’d hope so, too.”

“Well,” Dean waved for a waitress and slapped a hand on the table, “there’s gotta be somethin’ fun you like to do, right?”

Castiel shrugged, taking the receipt from their waitress and handing over his card. “Lawyers don’t get to have fun.” Dean actually _laughed_ at that; certainly _something_ was amusing. “The most fun I’ve had in the past year was when my brother dragged me to a concert, but other than that…”

“Then that settles it.” As soon as their waitress returned, Dean thumbed back to the door. “We’re gonna bust you outta your shell, dude.”

“Who’s ‘we?’” Castiel narrowed his eyes at the boy—what was he _getting_ at?

“Just…” With a groan, Dean rolled his eyes, running his fingers through his hair. “…C’mon, Cas.”

-+-+-+-+-+-

Visiting the park may not have been one of Dean’s better ideas. Maybe during the spring or fall when the temperature wasn't nearing ninety at noon or there were more clouds in the sky, surely, but not this—a humid mixture of heat and death that left sweat pooling at the back of his neck and soaking into his hairline, practically looking for an excuse to strip his shirt off. If he were at home, he would have done it without a doubt, especially if he had been forced to work in the yard. But no—this was _his_ idea. Get Castiel out of the house and into somewhere public where he could breathe fresh air and have a thought for himself for once.

Probably one of the stupidest decisions of his life. “I don’t see how sitting on a park bench looking at trees is considered fun,” Castiel voiced ten minutes after their arrival, fingers picking at hem of his shorts. At least Dean had had the forethought to change before they went, dropping by the house to switch from jeans to something infinitely more comfortable: that being the only shorter pants he owned, a tattered pair of cargo pants with a hole near the fringe. Castiel, on the other hand, was apparently ready for every type of weather, based on what he hung in his—Dean’s—closet: namely, a pair of khakis and a polo that barely fit his frame. Dean caught him pulling it on after accidentally barging into the bedroom, catching a glimpse of the _entire_ tattooed stretch of his back and what looked to be more wings dipping past his waistband, tinted with more elaborate hues and—

_Stop staring, Winchester._

Castiel didn't question much until they arrived at Tift Park and sat beneath the live oaks-lined trail, both content to watch the breeze flitting through the trees, the sound of children playing in an area farther off to their left, until the heat and its general omnipresence left Dean begging for a fountain or something he could run through. “It’s a lot better when it ain’t this _hot_ ,” Dean supplied, wiping his hands on his pants. “Shoulda gone to the pool or somethin’.”

“I’ve yet to understand why August is the warmest month of the year.” Castiel leant forward to rest his elbows on his knees, chin propped up in his hands. “Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve worked in Los Angeles.”

“You kiddin’?” Dean shook his head and leaned back. He could see it now, Castiel wandering through the middle of Los Angeles from client to client, hour by hour, barely making it home before it would be time to leave again. He wouldn't last out there, not with how fast cities moved. Dean wouldn't know—the furthest he had ever traveled was to Panama City for spring break when he and Aaron were dating. John actually liked him; he never suspected a thing. “I just can’t see you in the big city like that.”

“I can’t either, really,” Castiel shrugged. “My brother was adamant about me working with him, but I wanted something… simpler. Away from the city lights and the traffic. It’s quieter here.”

Dean nodded along, tilting his head to the sky, stark blue going on endlessly above them. “I’ll agree with ya there,” he said, kicking his feet. “Y’can actually see the stars here. Don’t think I’d be willing to give that up.”

“I wanted to work as an astronomer when I first arrived here.” He caught Castiel watching him out of the corner of his eye, blue eyes contemplative in the sun. “We were given the knowledge of the world at the time of our creation, but the stars were always… fascinating, to me. But humans didn't know what to do with us at first, until a number of jobs were finally chosen for Angels to seek employment in.” A sigh. “I went with what was easier at the time.”

Dean snorted; Castiel rolled his eyes at his mirth. “What part of ‘lawyer’ sounded easy?”

“It was better than becoming a physicist or something equally dull.” Sitting back, Castiel unbuttoned the top button of his polo, Dean struggling to ignore the new expanse of skin being offered, tanned and sheened light with sweat, even that small spot too much of a distraction for him. “At least I got the option to double as a Guardian. Desk work never suited me.”

“I’m surprised you’re not, like, frolicking naked in a field somewhere.” That drew a laugh from the Angel, Dean smiling in return. “So what’re you, like, the free spirit of the family?”

“Very likely,” the Angel nodded, sincere. “I’m the only one who’s actively taken to human activities, at least in this city. I spend the majority of my free time outdoors either running or in the garden, or up at Blackshear when the weather’s nice.”

Dean turned to him, pushing at Castiel’s shoulder. “See? Those’re hobbies,” he said with a grin, catching the brightened hue on Castiel’s cheeks, eyes attempting to dart away. “Seriously can’t see you at the lake, though.”

“I spend a good bit of my summers at the lake.” Castiel crossed an ankle over his knee. “The fish like to try and clean my wings.”

_Wait_. “Dude, you have actual _wings_?”

Castiel stared at him, lifting his eyebrows. “You thought I didn't?”

“No, it’s just…” He paused to rub the back of his neck, breathing out a slow breath. Of course Angels had wings, but that was only in myth, right? Statues and paintings and his own ill-conceived drawings as a child in the last pew on the back of weekly pamphlets, mythical figures that existed in fiction long before their arrival, effigies carved in what were hoped to be their likenesses—until they showed up. No halos, no wings, just suit-clad men and women with the same resting bitch face as the rest. They really _existed_? “…I didn't think _any_ Angel did.”

“We never told anyone upon our descent. It was a running conversation in the Spheres that human interpretation could never quite grasp what our manifestations were. In Heaven, our true forms are so vast, they’re indescribable. But here…” Castiel looked over his shoulder for a brief second, almost downtrodden. “…We’re not as magnificent as we’re portrayed to be.”

“Well, I think you’re pretty great.” The words came before he could pull them back; that didn't stop Castiel’s face from deepening its flush, the Angel now pointedly looking at his feet, simultaneously beaming with praise and attempting to shrink in on himself. “Seriously.  If—If it had to be anyone, I’m… I’m kinda glad it was you, y’know? Just… I’m startin’ to realize how lucky I am you’re here. No one else woulda… No one woulda given me the time of day, let alone offer to stay.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said, his voice barely a whisper. “I—appreciate the thought, really.”

He shouldn't have touched his shoulder again, shouldn't have let his hand linger as long as it did. Castiel made no attempt to move, though, the warmth of his arm bleeding through to Dean’s hand, the strength there pressing so easily into his grasp. If he wanted, he could reach across the gap and touch his cheek, feel the stubble under his fingertips; Castiel would probably let him.

If it weren’t for the screaming _child_ within thirty feet of him. Hair on end, Dean turned away from Castiel and sought out the noise, immediately rushing off the bench to the girl in the sundress standing beneath one of the oak trees, brown hair falling in soft curls on her shoulders, a red ribbon tied to her wrist. She couldn't have been more than five, eyes puffy and red and face stained with tears, one hand failing to rub the wetness away. She quieted at his presence, more scared than anything, still sniffling when he knelt down to her height. “Are you lost?” he asked, attempting to keep his voice sympathetic; asking if she was _okay_ was clearly out of the question.

She nodded, frantic, head darting in every direction: towards the old cart path, past the trees, to the parking lot. Whatever she said was lost in a panicked wail, deafening in its intensity; still, he managed to make out the words ‘can’t find my mom,’ and took her wrist in hand, thumb running over the ribbon there, protective. “Where was the last place you saw her?”

“By the playground,” he caught through another sob, both hands balled into fists and pressed to her eyes, doing nothing to stop her anguish or the tears spilling over.

His heart went out to her, it really did. “Hey, can you look at me for a second?” She nodded, but refused to tear away her hands. “C’mon, I can’t help you if you don’t look at me, can you do that?”

With an exaggerated wail, she lowered her hands, letting Dean cover them with his own, still trembling in his grasp. “Can you help me?” she pleaded, blue-gray irises standing out against bloodshot eyes.

Dean nodded and offered to carry her, hoisting the girl up and into his arms, hers wrapped tight around his neck, her head looking in every direction from her new vantage point. “Say, what’s your name?” he asked her after he waved to Castiel, still on the bench and tinkering with the cell phone in his hands, Dean turning to walk towards the swing set on the other end of the park.

“Danielle,” she answered, hoarse. “I was—I was by the swings, and I went under the jungle gym, and she was gone, and she likes that bench where that Angel is sitting.”

“You know he’s an Angel?” Dean looked to her, watching her nod.

“I can see his wings,” she mumbled, clinging tighter to his neck. “I can see all of them. They’re really pretty.”

Well _that_ confirmed it. “Can you tell me about ‘em?”

Concentration focused elsewhere, he listened to Danielle wax poetic about Angel wings and how some of them had more than two, about how some were red and some silver, and how the man on the bench had something she called ‘sky black’ and how she could see what looked like stars in the feathers. Dean’s heart ached at the thought of them being hidden away, but concentrated his efforts on finding the lone woman in the middle of the few-acre stretch of land shouting for her child. How had they even gotten separated, anyway?

She was still talking when he happened upon a woman wandering the edge of the parking lot by a beat up Pontiac Montana, talking on the phone at a distraught pace, waving her hands with enthusiasm. “Is that her?” he whispered to Danielle, pointing in the direction of the woman, who had finally caught sight of them and shrieked. Danielle practically climbed out of his arms and ran across the grass, hurling herself at her mother in an excited wail. The woman held her close and kissed her forehead, unwilling to let her down again. His heart warmed at the sight.

Castiel was still on the bench when he returned, one leg bouncing up and down, anxious, hands clutching his phone between his knees. “Did you find her mother?” he asked, standing, slipping his cell into his back pocket. Something about him was nervous; despite the regular placidity of his face and stoic demeanor, his fingers trembled at his sides, digging them into his front pocket to keep them stable.

For the most part, Dean ignored it, keeping his eyes level. “Yeah,” he answered, grateful. “Yeah, found her at the parking lot, apparently she was on the phone with 911 when we walked up.”

“That’s—.” Castiel paused to steady himself, bowing his head. “That’s great. I’m glad you were able to reunite them.”

With a laugh, Dean reached up to pat Castiel’s shoulder, shaking his head playfully. “So, what’s got you all up in knots?” He could have _sworn_ Castiel flushed with the question; the midmorning sun from behind Castiel’s head blinded any chance of him confirming it, though. “Look like you’re ‘bout to jump your skin.”

Castiel opened his mouth to speak, but instead let the moment pass quietly between them, a small smile playing out on his lips. “It’s… I’ll tell you another day.”

_Huh_. “Whatever floats your boat, man.” Dean shrugged and turned his back to Castiel, looking over his shoulder with a grin. “What say you and me hit up the Putt Putt before we gotta go get Sammy? See if you can win me a stuffed bear or somethin’.”

Castiel’s laugh should have been illegal, along with the feeling it left him with afterwards. “Sure, Dean.”

-+-+-+-+-+-

“Gabriel, this is an emergency.” Castiel covered his eyes with his hand; in the foreground, he knew Dean was walking off with the child to find her presumable parent, out of sight and mind for the time being, barely even giving a word before he darted off in a panicked streak. Was he normally that jittery, or had he figured it out, too? “ _Please_ , don’t make any jokes—.”

“Now, why would I joke around with _you_ , Cassie?” his brother chimed on the other end, still as giddy as ever. Same Gabriel, different city. “You haven’t called me in a _month_ , little bro. I was starting to wonder if you fell in a ditch somewhere.”

“I didn’t fall in a _ditch_ ,” Castiel hissed, looking up to find himself completely alone. To his front, the live oaks wafted in the breeze, cool to the back of his neck against the blazing sun. “I—I have a situation.”

“And what kinda situation is _that_?” Gabriel huffed. “’Cause if it doesn’t have anything to do with you not picking up the phone for—.”

“It’s my _client_.”

“…It always _is_ your client, isn’t it?” He could hear Gabriel pacing his office on the other end, probably kicking a hacky sack or pretending to play golf to bide his time. Did he ever do any work out there? “So, lay it on me, Cassie. What’s it this time, drunkard stumbling into wrong apartments? Guy keeps stealing his neighbor’s new lawnmower and throwing it into a lake? Y’gotta get specific, bro!”

Castiel shook his head—this was a bad idea. “I shouldn’t’ve called you,” he grumbled, making to cancel the call when Gabriel spoke up again, this time apologetic.

“Now, c’mon, Castiel, you _know_ I’m kidding.” He always was—so much so, that Castiel could never completely tell when his brother was _serious_ about something. “Look, you sound like you’re about to have a fit, so get it off your chest before you catch fire. You still wearing that stupid coat?”

“It’s not stupid— _Gabriel_.” Reclining on the bench, Castiel leaned his head back, closing his eyes to the sky. “He’s barely eighteen, he was arrested for shoplifting to help feed his brother. His parents died in May and they left him in sole charge and nothing in the will other than the house. And he’s kind and he just found a lost child and—I think I like him.”

Gabriel let out an exaggerated breath, probably waving his hand in the air. “He’s your client, you’ve _gotta_ like him. And he sounds dreamy, might I add—.”

“You’re missing the point.” This was going nowhere. Out of all the Angels that would have understood—Anna, Uriel, maybe even _Balthazar_ —Gabriel was his closest kin. Gabriel was _supposed_ to be willing to help him. “It’s not just that, it’s… I _like_ him. It’s only been four days, and I…” The brief pause on Gabriel’s end left him checking his phone to see if the service had dropped out. “Gabriel?”

“I’m here,” his brother answered; the general eagerness in his voice had disappeared, replaced with concern. “You’re—You’re _sure_ of this?”

“I—felt something. A spark, a… a _connection_ between us, just now.” Sitting up, he lowered his head, struggling to stop the tremor in his knee. “What am I supposed to do? I’m his Guardian, I can’t just…”

“Well, do you know if he feels the same way?” Admittedly, he didn't—aside from the bed sharing and the way Dean had been looking at him all day, their relationship was strictly platonic on the surface. Unless Dean had figured it out at the same time? “Earth to Cassie, are you gonna tell him?”

“I…” He couldn't—not now, not until he was sure it wasn't a crush or just from being so close to someone for the first time in a long while. Dean was young; he didn't need to deal with both his brother and the Angel that pined for him. “I can’t, not now,” he sighed, gaze locked on his tennis shoes. “I’ll live with it, for now. I’ll just… wait and see.”


	4. Hungover Heart

**Part 2**

**_December_ **

“I got the job!”

Bursting into the front door of his home, Dean caught sight of Castiel sitting in the middle of the rug, a string of blinking multicolored lights strung around him, the star-shaped tree topper sitting on his head, flashing intermittently from the cord plugged into the wall—how did that even get _down_ there? This was Sam’s doing, he knew—the smug little brat was sitting on the couch feigning innocence with his best face, halfway to a bite of Christmas Tree Cake with Jasper staring up at him, drool streaming out of the side of his mouth, unnoticed.

Somehow, Castiel’s eyes managed to shine brighter than the stupid star above his head, something akin to revelation showing in blue irises. “You did?” he asked, awed.

It shouldn't have been much of a surprise—after stumbling into a job at Books-a-Million two months earlier, it had been near _impossible_ to drag Dean away from the help wanted ads. _A bug musta got him_ was what Bobby said after he started poring over their newspapers on the weekends he had off, searching for anything offering employment, even from that woman down the road that kept trying to tip him in ones for mowing her lawn. Thankfully winter managed to kill all the grass before she broke out the larger bills—though, she had called about cleaning out her lake house last week.

But this one paid more than the bookstore, and got him out of being stuck stocking shelves all day—though, buying allergy medication would probably cost a fortune every week. “It’s at the humane society on Oakridge.” He made to hand Castiel a pamphlet but pulled back at the last minute, Castiel still ensnared by the string of Christmas lights. He could escape if he wanted to; acting immobile was mostly for Sam’s benefit. “This lady came in with a few fliers and got to talking with me at the register, and said I should come by after work. She wants me to work as an adoption counselor.”

“That's—that's great,” Castiel said, genuine, his eyes wrinkling at the edges. “What’re your hours?”

Dean looked up to the ceiling, counting the hours off on his fingers. “Seven-thirty to three Monday through Thursday, and every other Sunday from nine to five.”

“Does that mean I can go play with the puppies?” Sam bounced off the couch and wrapped his arms around Dean’s leg, Jasper at his heels and mirroring the position, up on his hind paws, orange mitts barely reaching his thigh.

Dean couldn't hold back his smile, ruffling the mess of Sam’s hair as Jasper barked, demanding the same attention. “We’ll see. ‘N I better not see you wantin’ another dog. You’ve already got a mess on your hands here, and he’s only been livin’ here a month.”

“But Dean!” Sam drew out his name, making the best face he could—Jasper copied him, an eerie resemblance that left Dean wondering if Sam and the dog had set up some sort of psychic bond with each other. “Jasper needs someone to play with when no one’s home!”

“Jasper’s fine by himself, right boy?” Another bark, followed by a low growl; Dean rolled his eyes. “Jeez, I know you hate bein’ left alone, but c’mon.” Patting his head, Jasper backed off and moved to leap on Sam, panting as he tackled him to the ground and licked his face, his brother doing nothing to stop the dog save for laughing and rolling into the side of the couch. Even Castiel was enjoying watching the pair, eyes wrinkling at the edges with his smile; Dean’s heart fluttered. “Hey, Sammy,” Dean finally choked out, slapping his bowed knees to get Jasper’s attention, picking him up when he ran over, ignoring him licking half his face, “go get ready for bed, I’ll be there in a few minutes. I gotta talk to Cas for a second, okay?”

Sam disappeared through the kitchen after shouting his ‘good nights’ and left a light-wrapped Castiel on the floor and Dean with a dog in his arms, the poor puppy threatening to pass out on his shoulder. “Go get your brother,” Dean told Jasper and set him down, letting him run across the house, joining Sam in his bedroom. On the floor, Castiel shrugged out of the string of lights and levitated it back to the top of the tree, Dean’s eyes never breaking away. “Neat trick.”

“It helps,” Castiel added. With a wave of his finger, he restrung the tree, making sure to dodge the sparse arrangement of ornaments and candy canes hanging from the artificial branches. The beady eyes of the white-clothed Angel near the top stared down at them, swaying with each shift of the tree until Castiel was done, multicolored lights blinking on and off. “Sam was bored after dinner.”

Dean snorted. “I can tell.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, he turned his eyes to the floor, heaving a sigh before he sat on the rug, back to the couch. Castiel hadn’t moved from the floor, body turned towards Dean with his socked feet tucked under his thighs, long sleeved shirt covering every inch of inked skin, a sight he had become well acquainted with as the summer ended, the trio making use of Bobby’s pool and amenities while he and his wife went to their annual family reunion in South Dakota, always upon on her insistence. Wings—six of them in total, two on the back of his arms stretching to his elbows, two spreading out to his front and fanning out over his ribs, and the others trailing down beneath the waistband of whatever pants he wore; only in his fantasies did he find out where they ended. A string of pink rosary beads was draped around his neck and halfway down his chest, along with a sky blue dream catcher on his left hip and a string of some unreadable script on the other. Dean would never admit to having stared at him as much as he did, not to anyone.

Not even to _him_. “I take it you got my text,” Castiel started off, running a restless had through his hair, still mussed from the tree topper.

Dean nodded and fidgeted with a loose thread on the carpet, twirling it between his fingers. Periodically, Castiel texted him throughout his days on shift about what Sam was up to, questions for whatever homework he had or consultations with teachers he needed to attend, or just when he planned to return home; most days, he was stuck in the backroom or running errands for the owner until closing at nine, or eleven at the latest. Those days, Castiel was in charge of whatever Sam needed, much as he was any time Dean wasn't in the house for a prolonged period. And despite his insecurities about Castiel still living there, about the relinquishment of control to someone he was still coming to know, he had come to appreciate Castiel in their almost four months under the same roof, the Angel more of a friend to him than he had ever had in his life. And all he had to do was get arrested to meet him—in a perverse way, he should have done it sooner.

“How many things do you have on your list, so far?” Castiel asked; Dean could sense the strain in his voice, the attempt to keep his tone calm. Something was wrong.

Right, the list—the thing he had been keeping in his pocket for the past few months, stained with coffee around one edge and burnt at the other, back when Castiel pulled him off the ledge a second time after he attempted to set the thing on fire. The fifth of December hadn’t been kind to either him or Sam, despite how Castiel had struggled to help in his own way. Dean still couldn't apologize enough for the words he said that day.

He pulled the yellow legal note from his back pocket and unfolded the square, reading over the scribbled list and handing it over to Castiel, who took it with interest. “Thirty two so far,” Dean said, watching the Angel read over the paper, fingers trailing down the page and turning it over, mouthing words to himself. A smile spread across Castiel’s lips. “I haven’t been able to do much since the holiday’s ‘re comin’ up and all, but—.”

“No, no, this is…” Castiel paused to clear his throat, shoulders slouched, hands fidgeting in his lap. “This is remarkable. It’s… I need to talk to you about this, actually.” He handed the paper back to Dean, keeping his gaze to the floor. “Do—Do you enjoy having me here, Dean?”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “…What kinda question is that?” Because really, what was he trying to get at? “Of course I do, Cas. …What are you saying?”

“I—feel I’ve overstayed my welcome,” Castiel confessed, despondent. Dean’s heart skipped at the thought, hands growing clammy on his thighs—he wouldn't leave, would he? His life had finally stabilized to the point where he could leave home and not worry about Sam not being there when he returned, he finally had a job that would _keep_ him there and another lined up in the next week, and someone that looked at him with adoration rather than scornful contempt. Which, _wait_. “You’re physically well off enough to take care of yourself and your brother, and Jody’s children are capable of watching him when you’re working. All you would need to do is report back to me weekly—.”

“Stop.” The words caught both Castiel and himself off guard from the force of it; in his lap, his hand trembled, fingers clutching the hem of his jean leg. “You… Why would you think I want you gone?” Castiel opened his mouth to speak, Dean cutting him off with, “That’s like… the _last_ thing on my mind right now.” Dean ducked his head, missing the way he knew Castiel was looking at him, that mixture of pity and remorse he had already seen too many times before. “It’s been… nice, having you here, y’know? My life’s been total shit for the last few years, and just… I can’t remember the last time I was actually _happy_ , _because_ of someone.

“And I know it’s selfish, but… I’d rather have you here, than anywhere else.” He rubbed the back of his neck, ignoring the hitch in Castiel’s breath. “Yeah, my life’s fuckin’ fan _tastic_ right now, but I know the minute you’re gone, it’s all gonna go to shit. So _hell_ if I’m gonna have you walk out that door ‘cause you don't feel like you _need_ to be here.” He bowed his head, words confined to a mumble. “… _I_ need you here.”

Castiel made a choked sound, not even bothering to hide the slight hue of his cheeks, barely visible in the dimmed evening light. “You don’t mean that.” His voice came out in barely a whisper.

Dean laughed a bit, running both hands through his hair. “Outta all the shit I lie about, this is _one_ thing I wouldn't, Cas.” Glancing up, he noticed the wetness of Castiel’s eyes and the tremble of his lip— _shit_ , was he _crying_?

He didn't get a chance to find out—Castiel lunged across the room without hesitation and dragged Dean into a fierce hug, crushing. He winced at the press of fingers into his skin through his shirt, hoping it wouldn't bruise—not that anyone would see it, anyway. “Thank you,” he heard Castiel mutter, muffled into his neck, relief washing through him with those two words. Castiel wasn't leaving—he _wouldn't_ leave. Not as long as Dean wanted him there, he wouldn't venture away. At least, until their arrangement was over—after that, Dean wasn't sure what would happen. He would probably take another case, dedicate himself to someone who deserved it more than him. But the fact that Castiel wanted to stay, that Castiel was holding him, and damn near _strangling_ him in the process, was something he hadn’t anticipated.

_Something’s wrong with him_ , Dean thought to himself. Exhaling through his nose, he pressed his forehead to Castiel’s neck and drew him in just as tight, wringing his shirt in his fists. “Promise you won’t leave us.” The _leave me_ went unsaid.

Castiel nodded and let out a shaking breath, finally pulling back, only enough to where he could cup Dean’s face in his hands, thumbs skirting over his cheekbones in an oddly intimate gesture. For once, Dean couldn't speak, merely caught up in the look in Castiel’s eyes, the adoration there buried deep in cobalt blue, occasionally darting down to his lips; Dean licked his own, struggling not to just push forward and close the gap, take what he learned he wanted back in October, when this… _thing_ between them evolved from something platonic and need-based to actually wanting Castiel _around_. Enjoying his company, listening to every word he had to say.

He could do it—all he had to do was move. And if the look on Castiel’s face was any indication, he felt the same. “Cas—.”

“ _Dean_!” Sam’s voice shouted from across the trailer. Castiel dropped his hands in a panic, both sets of eyes turned towards the kitchen, fully expecting Sam to stand there. Instead, they were alone, accompanied only by Sam shouting his name in the distance. “Are you coming?”

“I’m—.” Dean looked between the window and Castiel, noting the forlorn expression on his face, the unwillingness to make eye contact. “Look, we’ll talk about… whatever _that_ was, alright?” Dean affirmed. Castiel nodded, and even in the diminished light, Dean could see the flush in his cheeks.

“I’ll be right there, Sammy.”

-+-+-+-+-+-

This was a horrible idea, every part of it. Taking on Dean’s case, staying in his home, letting Dean continue to sleep in his bed—he should have just abandoned it from the start, took on that teenager who thought buzzing drivers in a Cessna out by the airport was fun. At least then, he wouldn't be living with an infatuation that made his heart ache every time he laid eyes on the object of his accidental affections. Was that how it felt to actually _like_ someone? Like his heart was attempting to break free of his chest, like he couldn't resist the urge to reach out and touch? Dean had never once pushed him away either, soaking up whatever attention Castiel gave him, skin blooming warm with each brush of fingers. His blush had been intoxicating to feel against his palms, searing against his skin.

It was wrong—Castiel was legally contracted to assist the boy, not fall in _love_ with him.

Still, that didn't stop him from staying by Dean’s side for whatever errand he was running, continuing to add on to the list the boy kept in his back pocket, wrinkling with age. In truth, he enjoyed it, more so than he ever had with any other client. They hadn’t looked at him like he was the sun; they hadn’t engaged him in conversations about nothing, purely just to hear the other speak. They weren’t from broken homes that needed mending. Just his presence around the Winchesters had been enough to turn their lives around, to keep Dean from slashing himself to death and leaving Sam in the custody of the state, to keep their little family whole.

And the second he left, it would crumble before his very eyes. Selfish as it was, he didn't want to see his work go to waste, see Dean regress back to where they first met and fall further, until all that separated them were six feet of dirt and a headstone gathering dust. He wouldn't forgive himself— _couldn't_ , not when both Dean and Sam deserved better.

They deserved to _live_.

Dean hadn’t spoken much to him aside from casual conversation and whatever transpired at the shelter that week, Dean coming home with layers upon layers of cat hair caked into his clothing and puffy eyes, sneezing until the remnants of dander were gone from his skin. Jasper hadn’t taken kindly to it at first, probably feeling betrayed that Dean would dare come home with another animal’s scent on him, but eventually came around, even more with the new collection of toys his owner brought back to him. That stuffed Lamb Chop in the corner had seen better days.

They should have talked about it by now, Castiel figured as the week went on; every attempt had been subverted by Sam needing something or Dean claiming he was too tired to talk, that it could wait until tomorrow. Until Saturday came and Jody showed up at their front door at nine in the morning with Claire and Alex on her arms, claiming it was her day off and they were going to Chehaw and _no one_ could tell her otherwise. “You guys haven’t been out to see the Christmas lights yet,” she claimed, Claire running in past her in search of Sam, Alex sinking onto the couch and throwing her head back with an exaggerated groan. “ _And_ , I’d like to see everyone out of the house for once, since Sam and Claire are on winter break.”

Thirty minutes later and after some grumbling on Dean’s part— _I haven’t sat down in a week, Cas, leave me alone_ —they piled into Jody’s fourth-generation Town and Country, Castiel in the front passenger seat and Dean reaching back from the middle row to field off Claire and Sam poking at each other’s faces and slapping their hands together for the entirety of the twelve minute trip. Past the ribbon-decorated archway off of Highway 91, Jody navigated down the thin two-lane despite the shouting in the back, Castiel rolling his eyes at Dean and Alex’s failing attempts to get Sam and Claire to stop bickering back and forth, until Jody shouted, “If y’all don’t shut up, so help me I’ll take everyone to their grandparent’s for the weekend,” earning a few groans out of the back.

Forty dollars worth of tickets later, they parked by a covered shelter outside the play area, Dean and Alex walking their siblings across the one-lane path and letting them loose in the multitude of wooden structures and walking bridges, Sam immediately taking off to the jungle gym with Claire at his heels.

“Kids are great, aren’t they?” Jody started off once they set their belongings down at their feet, both her and Castiel sitting back on a worn metal bench, Castiel looking up to the clouds in the sky. “Two’s a handful, ‘specially at their age.” She leaned over towards him, her arms draped over the back of the bench. “You know, Alex doesn't give me any problems except overage bills. The girl can’t stay off her phone. Claire, though.” With one finger she pointed to where Claire and Sam were running across a rickety bridge to a slide, Dean watching the pair while Alex hung upside-down by her knees in the middle of the jungle gym. “She’s gonna be trouble when she gets older, I can already feel it.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Castiel said with a laugh.

“What about you?” she questioned. Castiel turned his attention from the sky to Jody, an eyebrow cocked at the question. “You ever thought about having kids?”

_That_ question hadn’t come up in years, not since the whole fiasco about Nephilim in the media in the nineties, speculation about Angels mating with humans and what their progeny would mean for the world. Though, once the initial shock wore off and realization dawned that the Angel’s wanted nothing to do with fornication or anything outside of their duties, they were relinquished to do whatever they wanted and the topic was dropped off the radar. “I—don’t even know if it’s possible,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Even so… I think I already have what I want.”

Jody humphed and turned back to the park, tapping her heel in the grass, still green despite winter lingering around the corner. The last he checked, the temperature was lingering around sixty-five, even near noon—would the humidity ever end? “You really like them, don't you?” she asked. Castiel nodded without hesitation—before the Winchesters, his life passed without meaning, the monotony driving him to wonder if there really was meaning outside of work, if they really were destined to spend their time on earth working for money they didn’t need. But now, he could easily say he _enjoyed_ it, beyond the job and the requirements and having to report back to the courts on Dean’s progress every week, beyond the feeling that it was just _work_. They weren’t supposed to mean anything to him, and yet, they were the world.

“I was thinking the other day,” Jody started again, her tone gone soft. “John was a decent man to those kids—hell, he and Mary did their best with Sam to try and not make the mistakes they did with Dean. I think he realized towards the end how much he _screwed up_ with that boy. …But the last time I saw Dean this happy was the day Sam was born.”

Castiel looked to her, brows furrowed. “What are you saying…?”

Sighing, she pulled her arms back and patted him on the shoulder, digging her fingers into his shirtsleeve tight—a warning. “I’m saying, you’ve been a better father to these kids than John was his whole _life_. Dean always looks at you like you’ve hung the damn moon, and I saw him when he came by two days ago to pick up Sam.” Her grip roughened; he winced under the strain. “That’s the first time I’ve seen him look the _slightest_ bit unsure since you showed up. So, either you’re gonna tell me what’s up with—.”

“I think I’m in love with him.” Jody’s eyes widened in shock, horror dancing across her face. “Angels aren’t— _I’m_ not supposed to feel this way, but I look at him and… My heart hurts just _seeing_ him, knowing I can’t touch him or tell him it’ll be alright, my stomach drops when he walks anywhere near me, I worry for him when he’s not around or even when he’s asleep, and I—I can’t imagine life _without_ him. I can’t—.”

“Castiel.” Jody tapped his cheek, shocking out of his franticness; at some point, his hands started trembling in his lap, gripping the fabric of his jeans tight. “You’re not bullshitting me now, are you?”

“No, no.” He leant over to cradle his head in his hands, chest deflating. “I don’t—What do I do?”

“Well, you’re gonna _tell_ him, for one.” Jody popped the back of his head and pointed to Dean, now helping Claire up one of the rock walls. “And you’re gonna stop dancing around it. ‘Cause I swear—.”

“I won’t hurt him, I swear.” Castiel ducked his head and laughed, a bit hysteric. “…He hasn’t talked to me in in days. I’m wondering if he’s just going to ignore it.”

“Knowing him? It’ll take a miracle to get him to come around on his own.” She shoved him to the edge of the bench, jerking her head toward the playground. “Go, or I’m calling him.”

But what was he supposed to _say_? He couldn't just walk up to Dean and confess to whatever he was feeling—what if it was temporary? What if their almost-kiss had just been in the heat of the moment, fueled purely by misplaced emotions? Angels weren’t supposed to _love_ , but that didn't stop the ache in his chest as he ambled across the grass and into the rubber matted playground, struggling not to drag his feet in his reluctance. Dean had retreated to a bench on the far end, well within sight of Alex pushing both Claire and Sam on the swings. “You’re not with them?” Castiel asked at Dean’s side, looking down and catching him staring back, eyes dark with exhaustion.

Dean shook his head, standing and brushing off his knees. “I told Alex to watch ‘em for a while.” He turned to Castiel, hesitant in his movements, almost shy. “Can we… take a walk?”

With a nod, Castiel followed Dean away from the play park and down the one lane loop road, until the nature trails were in sight. For the time of day, Castiel expected more people to be out enjoying the last sliver of warmth for the month; instead, a lone deer greeted them beyond the unpaved path, a jogger running past occasionally, most likely finishing up their run. Even with the foot of distance between them, he could still feel the Dean’s resignation, the look of hopelessness in his eyes. “Are you—.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said in a rush. Castiel slowed his walk, Dean walking ahead of him until he realized he was alone. “I… shouldn’t’ve been such a dick to you lately,” he started again once Castiel caught back up, hands shoved in his pockets. “Didn’t even give you an explanation, either.”

“It’s alright,” Castiel admitted, quiet. He didn't blame Dean; if he were in the same position, suffering from loss and frayed nerves at every corner, fearing the next wave of change or the suddenness of new emotions, he would have done the same—pushed everyone away until he was ready to come around.

“It’s not.” Dean stopped and reached out for Castiel’s wrist, fingers clutching the thin skin there. Castiel watched him with wide eyes, searching for the intent on Dean’s face, the meaning behind his words. “It’s _really_ not, Cas. Look, whatever’s goin’ on between us ain’t right. You’re my fuckin’ Guardian and… I’m just some _fucked_ up kid that ain’t worth the damn time of day. And you’re just…” He stopped to shake his head, laughing despite himself. “You ain’t even human, man. What would you know about any of this?”

“More than you think.” Dean narrowed his eyes at him, but Castiel led them forward without a passing glance, leading the boy, hand still on his wrist, to the river’s edge beyond the sparsely growing pines and pine straw beneath their feet, the water rushing brown along the banks, lapping at the shore. “Look, Dean.” Castiel took both of his hands in his own, running his thumb over tanned skin, the faintest of freckles visible through the sunlight streaming through the pines. “I know what you’re feeling, believe me. Angels aren’t supposed to feel like this, we’re not supposed to feel affection or… _desire_ for anyone, Angel or human. And what you’re going through…” He stopped to cup Dean’s cheek, feeling the warmth there, breath catching at the sight of Dean’s eyes, wide and fearful. “…It’s mutual.”

Dean hugged him then, an embrace fueled by desperation and longing, radiating off him in waves; it nearly hurt to look at him, the tremble in the hands fisted into the back of Castiel’s shirt, the relief bleeding from his bones. And Castiel pulled him in just as tight, lips pressed to his soft hair, feeling Dean shudder against him. “This is so stupid,” Dean mumbled into his shoulder, words muffled against his shirt. “Been thinkin’ for the past two months you didn’t even _think_ of me like that, and now—.”

“I shouldn't.” Castiel pulled away, just enough to let their foreheads rest together, fingertips brushing one another’s in barely-there touches. With all of his being, he wanted to bridge the gap, touch the back of Dean’s neck and tilt him forwards, feel the swell of his lips against his own for the first time. But he couldn't—not like this. Not while the air was still murky around them, while doubts were still fresh in his mind. “Nothing about this is… normal,” he sighed. He caught Dean’s gaze again, the green of his irises even more pronounced up close. “Are… You’re just so young, are you sure?”

Dean’s face pinched at the implication, lips pursing; he let their touches linger, simply turning his eyes to the ground beneath their feet. “’M tired of hearin’ that ‘you’re too young to know what love is’ bullshit adults keep spoutin’ off,” he growled. “Like we’re supposed to be twenty-one before we can make a damn decision for ourselves. I went out with so many chicks over the years, and Aaron and Benny too, ‘n just… They never looked at me like you do. They didn’t… They don’t make me feel like I’m gonna _choke_ every time they’re within ten feet of me. They’re not you.” Castiel’s heart skipped against its will, hands tightening around Dean’s. “’N I don’t know if I’ll feel like this forever, if it’s just me bein’ lonely, but… _damn_ , I wanna give it a try. I think I _deserve_ that, after all this shit.”

Dean did—after everything that he went through, everything that had been put on him from such a young age, after having to deal with the aftermath of it all, he deserved to be loved, cared for. Treated with respect and told his accomplishments were to be treasured, not tossed to the dirt and trampled. But how was he supposed to say that to the one person who didn't believe he deserved anything at all?

“You deserve the world, Dean,” Castiel whispered, stroking a hand down his face, thumb pressed to his lower lip; Dean breathed out a warm sigh against the digit, hooded eyes flicking between Castiel’s eyes and lips. He felt Dean struggling to restrain himself, to pull away from the touch he knew they both wanted.

“Wanna,” Dean swallowed, breathless, “wanna kiss you so bad right now.”

“Not here.” With that, Castiel pulled back, Dean dropping the hold on their hands, now staring down at his feet. “I want to, _God_ knows I do, but… Another day. We need to discuss how this affects us, affects… _everything_.”

Dean nodded, shuffling his tennis shoe in the grass. “You think the court’ll care?”

“I sincerely doubt it,” Castiel chuckled, low. “If they did, they would’ve caught up to Gabriel’s reputation years ago. All they care about is your progress reports and when they can stop paying me.”

“Guess we should make ‘em pay you more, then,” Dean laughed. “C’mon, everyone’s gonna think we ran off if we don’t get back soon.”

“Wait.” Before Dean had the chance to walk off, Castiel caught his wrist, holding him firm. “You’re—You’re sure about this, right?” _About us_? _About me_?

Another nod, followed by a short laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure in my _life_ , Cas.”

-+-+-+-+-+-

Christmas was coming—or at least, that was what every commercial break said, constant barrages of advertisements for toys and vacation rentals and movies as far as the eye could see. In the past, it was always more exciting, filled with the idea of being able to spend the holidays with the entire family, everyone sitting around the table at either the Campbell’s or Bobby’s, depending on the year. Mary, Ellen and Deanna would always cook while John, Bobby and Samuel shouted at whatever game was on the television, leaving Dean and Sam to their own devices after presents were opened and the garbage tidied away, most of the time the pair wandering the yard or watching Sam play with his new cars or Legos on the front porch.

Now, while still invited for the same dinner and celebration in just two days, it left Dean feeling hollower than ever. The only reason he went through with decorating was because Sam wanted something to do, wanted to watch his brother decorate the tree and climb a ladder to set up icicle lights along the gutters. It was something John had always done right after Thanksgiving, dragged all of the lights and decorations out of storage and set them up on the lawn. Even if it weren’t the prettiest display to look at, it was the happiest any of them were all year.

Dean hadn’t even thought about presents until Sam asked him what he thought Santa was bringing this year, the realization dawning on him that he hadn’t bought _anything_ , not even wrapping paper. Castiel graciously offered two hundreds for whatever he thought Sam might like, and the trio set out for the Albany Mall that Wednesday, braving the crowds and the sales banners wherever they went. Sam was ultimately in charge of picking out his own gifts, after which Castiel would either shuffle the boy out or distract him long enough for Dean to make the purchase and hurry it back to the car, unseen.

On the third return trip, he found Castiel and Sam seated at a table facing the empty fountain at the center of the mall, now decorated with a twenty-foot Christmas tree and more bulbs and ornaments than he could count, presents and a miniature village adorning the bottom of the tree, and a train running along the track spanning the second floor balcony, winding its way around the tree before returning on its trip around the mall. That had always been Sam’s favorite part of the mall during Christmas—watching the model train chug along above them, its horn occasionally sounding every few dozen feet. Even now, he was ecstatic about it, holding on to the sleeve of Castiel’s jacket and chattering on about something, an abandoned cup of bite-sized pretzels between them.

Despite having to run back and forth to the Impala every few minutes, the day hadn’t been a complete bust. Sam had three bags from Toys R Us and Books a Million, Jasper a new rope to haul around the house, and Castiel was apparently enjoying being able to buy things behind both of their backs; Dean _still_ didn’t know what was in the FYE bag. “You two having fun?” Dean asked when he sat down, the bench squeaking under the new weight.

“They actually put the train up this year!” Sam explained, banging a curled fist on the table. Castiel turned away from the train gliding around the tree and back to him and Sam, hands folded on the table and a grin on his lips, eyes shining in the light streaming through frosted glass above them. “Daddy complained last year about it, ‘cause it broke and they weren’t gonna fix it. We should call and tell him!” Dean’s heart panged; neither of his party noticed the abrupt shallowness of his breathing, the tremor in his hands. At least, not right away.

That train—how could he have forgotten? The thing had been a topic of conversation all last December, when John personally offered up money to the mall to have it fixed, even gathering a few parents and more than enough children to put in extra cash to buy a new track and a new power source, all in hopes that it would run again. The _one_ thing both his father and Sam looked forward to over the winter break—of course Sam would remember. And of _course_ Sam would ask him to call John and tell him that it was working.

Whatever cheery atmosphere they had shared just hours before tarnished; even Sam realized his mistake, quickly fighting to retract the words, to take away the sting of insinuation. Dean didn't blame him for the mistake—from the look Sam had given him all day, John and Mary had been on his mind too, especially as the days drew closer. But that didn't take the pain away, the knowledge that they really weren’t there and wouldn't be coming back, no matter how often Dean prayed, no matter how many times he begged and pleaded before the altar when no one was around. Not even Castiel’s hand could calm him, thumb stroking over his knuckles, an attempt to soothe frayed nerves.

It didn’t work. Still, he couldn't let on that the words affected him, that he was begging for an out. “It’s fine, Sammy,” he said with false certainty, putting on his best smile, however faked it was. Whether either of them believed him was up for question. “Hey, what d’ya say we get some ice cream and head out?”

Castiel would take more convincing than his brother. Sam, with an equal share of faked enthusiasm, hopped down from his chair and ran to Dean’s side, throwing both arms around his middle and burying his face in his shirt, apology lost in the screams of children in the background and the constant thumping of footsteps across the tiled floors. “It’s alright,” Dean crooned, pressing a kiss to his brother’s hair, ignoring the pang that shot through his heart. “It’ll be okay, Sammy…”

-+-+-+-+-+-

In hindsight, Castiel should have known something like this would happen, he considered, sitting in the front of the Impala with Dean in the driver’s seat, the elder brother gripping the steering wheel with conviction, worrying his lower lip between his teeth every quarter mile. Then again, leaving Sam with Jody for a few hours wouldn't have helped much either, considering they technically needed him to pick out what he wanted in the first place. What Sam had said wasn't a mistake in itself, just a slip of the tongue—a temporary misplacement of time resulting from a memory, of a period where his life was simpler, when he wasn't living alone with just his brother and their Guardian.

But the impact of Sam’s words was still heard in the car twenty minutes later, Dean struggling to maintain the speed limit on the outskirts of town, doing anything to keep his mind off what he was thinking. Part of Castiel wanted to reach across the bench seat and take one of his hands, steady him, let him know it didn't _mean_ anything. Any other time and he knew, Dean would have fared better. But not now—not so close to something so important, something Dean had reiterated time and time again the significance of. Their first Christmas since the passing; the first since they were left alone.

Dean didn't speak after he parked the Impala behind their home, giving him a look along the lines of _take him inside_ before he exited the car, keys in hand, and headed for the trunk. In the backseat, Sam sat still, hands balled into fists in his lap with his head hung low, barely breathing past a sigh. “Are you alright?” Castiel asked, turned around with his arms resting atop the bench seat.

Sam nodded, barely noticeable. “He’s really mad at me, isn’t he?”

“He’s not—.” Castiel stopped at the look in Sam’s eyes, hazel irises clouded red, puffy despite unshed tears. No part of the boy should have been able to understand the impact of such a slip up, especially at his age—he was supposed to be worrying about school and friends, not berating himself because his brother was just as upset as he was, maybe even more so. In his four months there, Castiel hadn’t seen Sam cry more than twice. Dean was more uninhibited with his emotions behind closed doors, while Sam remained reserved for as long as he could, save for when Claire was over or they were out in public, his true personality showing around those he cared for the most. “…He’s not mad at you, Sam,” Castiel finished, voice hushed. “He may be upset, but he’s not angry.”

“I don’t want him to be upset!” Castiel winced at the shrillness of Sam’s words, reverberating inside the car. Dean would have heard the outburst as well if he hadn’t have walked inside twenty seconds earlier with their bags, disappearing behind the door with a slam. “I don’t—he knows I didn't mean it! I wasn’t thinking, I just forgot, I swear! I keep,” his voice cracked the further he went on, tears now flowing freely, “I keep thinking they’re here, and then I wake up, and Dean’s here, and you’re here, but mommy’s not. And daddy told me to be strong for Dean last year, and all I do is make him sad. …I’m not a good brother.”

Castiel couldn't get into the backseat fast enough. Sam practically leapt into his lap after Castiel crawled over the bench, arms flung around his neck and face buried in his chest, sobbing a wet spot into his shirt with no one but the Impala to hear them. “You’re the perfect brother,” Castiel confided, stroking his fingers through Sam’s hair, resting his forehead against the too-long brown locks, his other arm keeping him from falling off into the footwell. “You didn’t do anything wrong, I promise.”

“I made him drive fast,” Sam whined, fists clenching even tighter behind his neck. “He never drives fast ‘less he’s mad. And he talks to me. He didn’t say nothin’ to me.” Castiel just held him until the tears stopped, until he was left sniffling and blowing his nose in Castiel’s shirt, his face still wet. Castiel wiped his eyes dry and let Sam sit there with his head on his chest, until he was ready to speak. “…You think he’s ever gonna talk to me again?”

His heart broke for the boy. “He’s probably waiting inside for you, if you’d want to find out?” Castiel nodded towards the white-walled trailer, Sam’s eyes locked on the porch steps.

Sam nodded, his hair bobbing around his neck. “I wanna go in, Cas’iel.”

Once inside, Castiel half expected Dean to be sitting in the living room with his head in his hands, like he did so many other days when he found him alone, like the weight of the world was bearing down on his neck, or even in one of the bedrooms stress cleaning. Instead, he and Sam wandered in to find the house completely empty, Dean’s phone and wallet left on the kitchen table with a note reading ‘ _went for a walk_.’ Sam was still walking the rooms calling his name, eventually returning with a new set of tears in his eyes, standing in the kitchen doorway with his hands grasping at air at his sides, lip trembling even harder than before. “He ran away,” he bawled.

Castiel barely caught him in time, catching the boy before he fell to his knees and hoisting him up into his arms, running a stern hand up and down his back, shushing in his ear. “He just went for a walk,” he said, fighting the tremor in his throat, blinking at the open front door, ignoring Jasper running into the room and jumping up to paw at his knee. “He’ll be back, I promise.”

But four hours turned up nothing, no hint of anyone walking up the red clay street, nothing from Jody or any of the other neighbors, or even any of the congregation he might have been close to. No one in the Winchesters’ personal phone book had caught sight of Dean anywhere, and as the hours progressed, Sam became more frantic, never settling in one area, always wandering from room to room with Jasper at his heels, tail and head sagging with Sam’s constant scurrying.

It wasn't until the seven o’clock hour rolled around that Castiel’s festering worry teetered into panic, wishing he could do something other than just sit there and _wait_ , praying Dean would come home and not do anything stupid. Sam had cried himself hoarse by the time he drove the Continental over to Jody’s and parked, knocking on her door with Sam still in his arms and Jasper trudging behind. “Dean’s run off,” Castiel said in a rush, failing to avoid the scornful glare she shot him before she took Sam from him, Jasper running inside to tackle his mother. “He said he was going on a walk three hours ago and hasn’t come back.”

“Boy, what did you _do_?” At that, Sam wailed again, this time crying into Jody’s shirt and alerting the two girls in the house; even Alexandra was all ears, standing abruptly and growling at the new visitor.

Castiel fisted his hair, terror finally seizing in his chest—he finally did it. He drove someone to run off into the night, never to be seen again. What was he supposed to do now? “I’ll tell you later,” he hissed, patting Sam’s head again, fleeting. “Can you watch him? I—have an idea where he went.”

Jody refused to soften, tapping her foot against the hardwood floors; Alex and Claire were looking on in the background, Alex over the couch and Claire stepping cautiously towards her mother’s leg. “Well, you _call_ me when you find him, and you _tell_ me what happened. ‘Cause I swear, if you _hurt—_.”

“It’s nothing like that.” Castiel turned and ran to his car, popping the driver’s side door. From Jody’s front step, he watched Sam wave back at him, a heaviness in both their hearts. “You better be there,” Castiel growled to himself, turning the key and slamming the Continental’s door behind him.


	5. Mud on the Tires

“…Hey, mom.”

Tugging his flannel around him tight, Dean looked down upon a shared granite headstone in the middle of Thundering Springs Cemetery, the shadow of his church looming behind him, the sun long since dipped below the horizon, bringing with it the first chill of winter, his arms shivering from the cold. At his back, a lone streetlamp lit the crossroads of Graves Springs Road and Forrester Parkway, illuminating the lone truck that drove past, disappearing behind the pines seconds later.

He hadn’t visited them in a while, not since he weeded the cemetery in October when the sun was still high and the grass had grown unruly over the smaller headstones. Then, he had sat in front of their plots after his work was done and the lawnmower was stored in the back of the church, towel wrapped around his neck and sweat beading on his brow. He hadn’t spoken much, just stared at the graves with glassy eyes and wished for it to all be a horrible nightmare, that he would wake up in the morning and walk out to find his mother in the living room reading, to hear his father snoring in the bedroom down the hall. No such luck.

Now, he sat with his hands steepled together, fingers pressing to his forehead as he stared at the grass, a lone ant crawling across his shoe. He paid it no mind. “It’s Christmas. I… bought you this, today.” From a paper bag at his hip, he pulled out a statuette and unwrapped it, setting the white figurine atop her side of the headstone, the porcelain-carved Angel glancing down mournfully from its cupped hands, a rose growing from between its pale fingers. It took him weeks, but he could finally afford it; even if someone stole it in passing, the sentiment was still there. “Sammy picked it outta that magazine you liked so much, said you’d like it. I didn’t tell him I got it. I kinda didn’t want him to think about all… this.” He wiped his eyes dry, his voice trembling as he spoke. “Lotta good that did me.”

It was stupid, talking to a slab of rock; it wasn't like she was listening to him, anyway. Even the Angels she liked so much didn't care, most of them probably looking down at his plight with disinterest. Even the ones on earth wouldn't notice him if he tried, Castiel being the exception. Neither he nor Sam deserved to have read the note he left behind, nor the length of time he had been gone without even taking his phone with him. The cemetery was a good hour’s walk from home, and the remaining time he spent sitting at the back of the property, struggling to find the right words to say.

What _was_ there to say? _I’m sorry I’m such a failure_? _I wish you weren’t dead_? He started off simple, grimacing when he finally spoke, “Met an Angel. His name’s Castiel, he’s… You’d really like him.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, breath shaking. “He’s learned all your recipes and he gets along with Sammy, helps out around the house… He even got me up off the couch. I help people adopt cats, you believe that? I named one after you, this little tabby that won’t stay outta the climbing tower. She likes me though.” He laughed, shaking his head. “She’s got your eyes.”

A gust blew past, shivers wracking his frame until it subsided. “It’s… I hate it, ma. Y’all weren’t even s’pposed to leave that night, y’all were gonna stay with us at uncle Bobby’s. You didn't—I didn’t care ‘bout my diploma, that was dad’s thing. He had to go’n get all excited over it, thought he needed to show everybody ‘n get it framed… It wasn’t that big of a deal. Y’all knew it was stormin’ too. You shouldn't’ve… I shoulda gone instead…” That time, he refused to wipe the wetness away, throat threatening to close in his anguish. “How’m I supposed to do this without you? How’m I supposed to take care’a Sammy when I can’t even get over _this_? It’s not fuckin’ _fair_!”

In the darkness, Dean dropped his head to the grass in front of their headstones, clutching at the dying blades and wishing they were sharper, wishing they would bleed him dry and leave him to die. It was where he belonged, anyway—if anyone could have died, it should have been him. “Take me,” he growled to the dirt before rising up, eyes to the abysmal sky, stars blinking back at him in sympathy. “You hear me? Take _me_ instead! You bring them back, and you take me! I don’t—I don’t deserve to be here, anyway.”

His cries went unanswered in the night; if anyone in the subdivision down the road heard him plead for his demise, they didn't speak a word. That was how Castiel found him at thirty minutes past seven, laying in the middle of nowhere with a tearstained face and a numb heart. Dean watched the lights of the Continental blink up the street until they shut off, Castiel rushing from the vehicle and across the graveyard, slowing his gait and coming to rest at his side, tucking his shoes underneath him and reaching out to stroke his fingers across Dean’s cheek.

Dean closed his eyes at the touch, rolling onto his side. Later, the ant bites would probably bother him; for now, he reveled in it, the small welts less than he deserved. “Shoulda let me die when you found me,” Dean said, hoarse. “Shoulda just… Why d’you gotta care so much, man?”

“That’s just who I am.” With some effort, Castiel helped him to sit up, Dean leaning his weight on the Angel’s shoulder. Even remaining upright took more energy than he had, his limbs numb at his side, head too heavy to lift. He hadn’t felt that weak since the night of the funeral, when Sam found him passed out on the bathroom floor, head pressed to the toilet rim after puking up bile for hours. Even after four months, even with the proof buried six feet below his feet, he still couldn't believe it. Castiel’s presence was even more of a confirmation, his existence reminding him every day that his parents were gone, that his own choices in the wake of it had brought them together in the hopes of helping him recover, to _survive_.

Seeing him hurt more than it helped. “Thought I was gettin’ better,” Dean managed, words slurred with exhaustion. “Thought I finally had everythin’ back on track. Got a job that I can actually _keep_ , Sammy’s acing his classes, ‘n I got you here… I just thought I’d get used to it.” Castiel’s arm around his waist calmed his nerves at least somewhat, the near constant shiver in his hands reduced to an occasional shake. “I thought it was s’pposed to get better. That _I_ was.”

A whine ripped from his throat at the kiss Castiel pressed to his temple, chaster than he could have imagined; Castiel let his forehead linger there, his free hand taking Dean’s and warming them in his grasp. “There are some things you never fully recover from,” Castiel said, soft. “There’s no one way to grieve, no one way a person should feel. What you’ve been through is a tragedy, and I wouldn't expect any less of you. But the fact that you’re still here, that you’re _living_ and still taking care of your brother on your own, that you’re _surviving_ … You’re stronger than you think. You’re stronger than any man I’ve ever seen.” Dean glanced at Castiel, ignoring the new wave of tears streaking his face, the hand that wiped them away. “I’m _proud_ of you, Dean. And I’m sure they are too.”

 That time, he didn't make a sound when he cried into Castiel’s shoulder, falling effortlessly into his arms and just holding him tight, breathing in the scent of the Angel, laced with sweat and dirt, the grass that surrounded their feet. Whether Castiel spoke to him after that or not, he didn't know; he grounded himself in the arms of his Guardian in the middle of the cemetery, the stars as their only witness, moon watching on in silence. “I wanna go home,” Dean murmured after his anguish subsided, Castiel’s hands still stroking paths down his back. “Sammy’s probably pissed at me.”

“He’s anything but.” Castiel helped him to his feet without protest, keeping an arm around his waist as they walked back to the Continental, Dean slumping against him along the way. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”

“Hope so.” The last things he remembered before he closed the passenger door behind him were the sound of the engine roaring to life and Castiel kissing his cheek, telling him to rest. That they would be home soon.

-+-+-+-+-+-

Sam was still in their bed by the time Castiel woke the following morning, an elbow in his kidney and a mop of brown hair in his face. Somewhere beyond the obstruction, Dean continued to sleep on, one arm reaching out over Sam’s body and resting on the fabric of Castiel’s nightshirt, intermittently grabbing tight only to let go again, almost a confirmation that he was still there, that he wasn't going anywhere. Outside, thin strands of sunlight peaked through the half-open blinds, a lone owl hooting in the trees across the road; he couldn't bring himself to care, not when the bed was warm and he had his two favorite people within arm’s reach, resting soundly in the silence of the room.

Until Jasper managed to worm his way through the door, at least. Dean was the first to wake when the Doberman launched up onto the mattress, paws landing on his shin and drawing a startled yelp out of him. Any other time and Castiel would have laughed; Sam was still asleep though, snoring like nothing had happened. “Gonna kill him one day,” Dean grumbled, rolling over onto his back and pushing himself upright, palming his eyes. Jasper spun in circles at the edge of the bed until he found a suitable spot, content to watch his owner with half-closed eyes, yawning. “Time’s it?”

Castiel groaned something akin to ‘too early,’ earning a chuckle from Dean. “Eight-thirty,” he answered. He managed to pull himself up without waking Sam, still shuffled between them, clinging tight to Dean’s hip. “How’re you feeling?”

Dean shrugged, not bothering to fight off a yawn. “Like I got run over by a truck.” That was to be expected—from the way Sam tackled him when they returned to Jody’s and the way she smacked him for his behavior, Castiel was surprised he wasn't bruised. Physically, at least; the wounds to Dean’s soul would take longer to heal. They had time on their side, though—all the time they needed. “Pretty sure Jody tried to rip my ear off.”

“I’m kind of surprised she didn't do anything more than she did,” Castiel added, stretching his arms above his head. “You want breakfast?”

Dean’s stomach was enough of an answer for him. “ _Please_ ,” Dean pleaded. He took the time to strip the sheets from him without jostling his brother, heading for the door in the same clothing as yesterday, still grass-stained and drenched in sweat. “Haven’t eaten since _lunch_.”

Jasper followed them out of the room once they made sure Sam was still sleeping, Castiel trudging across the trailer in his pajamas to the kitchen, Dean yawning at his back, half awake on the dining table by the time Castiel finished with their pancakes and eggs, setting four plates on the table, two for each of them. Between bites, he watched the color return to Dean’s face, the sluggishness of his movements fading away until the light was back in his eyes, until Castiel could breathe easier knowing he would be alright, at least for now.

Though, Dean’s need to thank him caught him off guard, the last bite of eggs temporarily forgotten on his plate. “What for?”

“Just… everything, man.” Dean looked back to his fork, swirling the tines around in the last of his syrup. “’S much as I hate how I got here, I’m… just glad you’re here to go through it with me.” Castiel’s heart warmed at the sincerity in Dean’s eyes, the quirk of his lips into a barely-there smile. “Do you—did you mean what you said, last night? About them…”

“I did.” Castiel watched Dean soften with the admission, head bowed to the table, out of the way of his plate. He reached across to thread his fingers through Dean’s hair, mussing the matted strands up more than before. “Everything you’ve done, everything you’ve accomplished in their absence—I think they would be proud to see who you’ve become.”

Dean mumbled a ‘thank you’ from underneath his arms and fell lax into Castiel’s ministrations, Castiel enjoying the pleased sighs Dean huffed every few seconds, especially when his fingers brushed behind his ears. “I, uh…” Dean lifted his head, cheeks flushed a brilliant red; Castiel drew his hand away, attending to his plate once again and finishing off the remainder of his breakfast before Dean spoke again, this time resolute. “I was thinkin’ ‘bout dropping Sammy off at Jody’s tonight and us two doing something together. Y’know, since today’s Christmas Eve, ‘n we’re gonna be at Bobby’s all day—.”

“I’d love to,” Castiel said in a rush. Castiel barely had time to think about what he was saying before Dean was grinning at him, ecstatic about the idea. “I—Where are you planning on going?”

“Promise you won’t think it’s stupid?” Dean asked, shy; Castiel nodded—why would he? Unless Dean planned to drag him to the quarry or out in the middle of the woods or something. “There’s this… place, out on the bad side’a town, but it’s supposed to have an _amazing_ spring. I was… I’ve always wanted to go, and I think now’s a better time than any, right?”

Castiel nodded, smiling in turn. “I’d love that, Dean.”

-+-+-+-+-+-

Parking the Impala underneath someone’s garage awning, Dean shot up a prayer that no one would bother to steal his car while they were down the street. Not that anyone lived in that house anyway, from the last time he looked. The _For Sale_ sign still hung from the mailbox along the driveway, apparently untouched for weeks. He didn't blame it— _no one_ lived on that side of town unless they were original owners or potheads. At one point, it had probably been vibrant, a shining example of Albany—now, water-ruined houses and derelict buildings sat along the banks of the Flint, waiting for another flood to wipe it permanently off the map.

Castiel looked just as terrified as he did, but this time probably out of wariness rather than in fear for the Impala. “You’re sure this is safe?” he uttered, looking out every window. The garage hadn’t been occupied in months, from the looks of it; an old workbench sat up against the white cinderblock wall, the entryway to the back porch covered in vines. He didn't even want to question the open bathroom door, probably home to rats or vagrants passing by; he wouldn't have been surprised by either.

“It’s fine, Cas,” Dean asserted, shutting off the engine and letting the car be swallowed back up by the night. Above them as they walked down the gravel track beds of the driveway, the moon shone more vibrantly than ever, dulling even the brightest of stars, all still visible from east to west, trees doing nothing to obscure them. Castiel watched with rapture as they walked, still the same reverence on his face as when they laid out in the yard at home for a second time, just the three of them, watching the constellations and listening to Castiel name off each and every one, until one of them fell asleep. “…You really like this stuff, don’t you?”

Castiel nodded, hands in his pockets. “There are so few wonders on this earth I’ve seen that fascinate me,” he stated, voice rough and clear in the night. “Stars being one of them. Before the shuttle program ended, I used to fantasize about becoming an astronaut.”

“Really?” Dean stifled a laugh, the image of Castiel stuffed inside a spacesuit almost too much to handle. “I’m still tryin’ to picture you as part of NASA.”

“It’s still a dream of mine,” he sad, a small smile on his lips. Castiel kept his eyes to the two-lane before them, wandering through the thickets of grass and dodging low-hanging limbs from oaks as they walked. “Before you graduated, what did you want to become? You said you wanted to work on cars?”

Dean looked to the sky in thought—how long had it been since he had asked himself that question? All of his friends were probably off in college by now, Auburn or Tech or Stanford, somewhere far away, never to be heard from again. Some striving to become lawyers, others engineers or movie stars. “I wanted to sing.” Castiel cast him a curious glance, softer around the edges now. “Or drive stock cars. Dad used t’always watch the race on Sunday, ‘n he took me up to a race track a couple years ago, apparently he knew one of the guys in the pits so we got to walk around and meet the drivers. I liked watchin’ them in the garage too, made me wanna head upstate and study engineering or automotive.”

“Maybe you still can.” Dean turned to Castiel, nearly stumbling over his own feet. “I’m sure you could get your scholarship back, and you can always move away from here if you need to. You could always enroll Sam in a new school, start college in Atlanta or wherever you’d want to go.”

“It’s… not really that simple, Cas.” Dean shook his head, humming to himself. “Bein’ born here in a town like this, it’s… You don’t get a choice whether you stay or go. People who’re born here _die_ here, unless they get into college or marry up. My family, mom’s family, none’a us’ve ever stepped foot outside Albany unless we were goin’ on a trip. Hell, even Atlanta’s too far sometimes. …I’ve thought about it sometimes, though, what it woulda been like if I’d’ve went through with it and gone to Tech, if I woulda gotten to study something I actually enjoy. Maybe get a job working on custom cars or at the race tracks. But… I don’t really think it’s in the cards for me anymore.”

Castiel nodded along, his brow furrowing the longer Dean spoke. “It’s entirely up to you, Dean. But… I think you should consider it. You don’t have to do it now, but maybe in the future when everything settles down. Have you thought about taking classes at Darton in the meantime?”

He actually _laughed_ that time. “Really, dude? _No one_ goes to Darton unless they got nothin’ better to do with their lives.”

“Fair enough,” Castiel chuckled back. Their shoulders brushed the closer they walked, Dean intentionally shoving Castiel every few steps, Castiel never pushing back harder than necessary. “So, how close are we?”

Very, from what Dean could tell. Around another set of trees and beyond a white fence was Radium Springs, the pride of all of Albany and one of the natural wonders of the state of Georgia. Under the moonlight, the ethereal waters shone a bright teal where the light reflected off the surface, cypress trees stretching high beyond the stone-laid walls of the pools and Spanish moss hanging from their branches, swaying in the breeze. From Castiel’s expression, he could tell the memory of the stars had been long forgotten, replaced with the scenery before them, all for the taking.

Castiel couldn't even _speak_. Dean did it for him, one hand on top of the fence post, his feet between the bars. “We’re gonna go swimming, _c’mon_!”

“Dean, this isn’t—.” But Dean was gone, already standing on the other side with his hands on his hips, tapping his foot in the grass. With an eye roll, Castiel hauled himself over the fence and hopped down into the dirt, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “When I agreed to this, I didn't think we would be _breaking and entering_.”

“It’s a public park,” Dean groaned. “If they wanna catch us, they’ll have to find us. Now c’mon! Before the cops think we’re doin’ something illegal.”

Castiel’s retort was lost to the sound of the leaves crunching beneath Dean’s feet, Dean leading the Angel to a section of the park beyond the stone walls and gift shop, beyond the pines and walking paths. He found his destination back a ways, the banks almost completely overtaken by cypress roots and kudzu. A pool gleaming blue in the darkness, nothing marring the clear surface save for the fish that glided through effortlessly, the splash of their fins creating wakes as they moved. At his back, he felt Castiel staring, mouth probably open in awe. “You—we’re swimming here?”

“Duh, where else you think we’d do it?” The atmosphere changed then, Dean hyper aware that Castiel was watching him remove his shirt, tossing it onto a dry root along the bank. His shoes were next, toeing them off and setting them in the same area, along with his socks. “You ever gone skinny-dipping?”

 Even in the dark, he knew Castiel was blushing, his entire face a full shade of red. “Dean—No, I—.”

“It’s fun, c’mon.” Dean made to grab the hem of Castiel’s shirt, the Angel making no move to stop him; in fact, Castiel took his hands and helped, the two tugging the black Henley off and throwing it atop Dean’s own, the entirety of his tattoos finally bared to him and _only_ him. He ran his fingers over one of the wings wrapping around to under his pec, feeling his ribs and the edges of ink there, ever so slightly raised beneath his fingertips. “They’re…” _Beautiful, awesome, the best thing I’ve ever seen_. “…How long did they take?”

“A few weeks,” Castiel breathed. Only then did Dean realize how close they were standing, his hands tracing aimlessly over endless tattooed skin, Castiel’s pressed around his waist, gripping intermittently, skimming just beneath his waistband. “If you wanted to touch them, I would’ve let you.”

“Kinda awkward to ask someone if they’d let you feel up their tats,” Dean laughed. Cautiously, he drew his hands down Castiel’s stomach, stopping once he reached his zipper. “…Can’t swim if you’re still wearin’ pants, Cas.”

They managed to wrench out of each other’s hold only marginally after that, Dean turning to face a cypress and tugging his jeans and boxers down, tossing them atop his pile and leaving Castiel on the bank to watch as he launched into the pool head first, letting the chill of the water shock him awake, cleanse him once he broke the surface, perching his toes on a large rock. On land, Castiel was still watching him, apparently awestruck at _something_. “You gonna come in? Or’re you gonna stand there all night?”

Castiel didn't bother to answer; instead, Dean watched him strip the remainder of his clothing off and toss it aside, furtively glancing away until Castiel jumped in as well, the luminescent water rippling around where Castiel’s body once was. Dean waited for what felt like minutes, eyes darting around the springs in search of the Angel, now nowhere in sight. What, did he _drown_? Was he really a rock once he got wet? “ _Cas_ , I swear to God—.”

The series of splashes at his back shocked him into a near scream—spinning around, Dean’s face paled in the shadows spreading overhead, the spread of _wings_ blocking out whatever view he had for at least fifteen feet to either side of him, half of the black mass of primaries and secondaries submerged beneath the water’s surface, the rest radiating with an eerie blue light, the shine of Castiel’s eyes illuminating his profile, glowing marks branching from the corners of his eyes and down his face in reflective patterns, flowing down his chest and ending at his hips. Certain tattooed feathers even glowed, pulsing with each heartbeat, every breath he took. He looked like he belonged there, a spirit of the water set to protect his territory for as long as he lived, hidden from human eyes until someone worthy discovered him.

Out of everyone in the world, Dean felt sure that he was the _only_ person Castiel had ever shown his wings to.

“You’re…” His words came out in a rushed stammer; he cleared his throat, running a wet hand through his hair. “…You’re practically _preening_ , dude.”

Castiel blinked, his wings attempting to flap at his back, instead just shoving the water around in a wet slosh. “I apologize,” he said; still, he had the audacity to _smile_ , looking pleased with himself. “You seem to like it, though.”

“Dude, hot guy with _giant_ wings growin’ outta his back?” Dean flushed at his own words, attempting to turn away; with a finger, Castiel tipped his chin up and forced their eyes to meet again, Dean sucking in a breath at the touch. “Cas—.”

“Hush.” Castiel pulled him closer, Dean moving with him on instinct, tongue wetting his lips. “Your talking is getting in the way of what I’m trying to do.”

“Yeah?” Dean sneered; he felt Castiel tighten his grip, blue eyes narrowing further. “And what’re you gonna d—.”

Castiel cut him off with a swift kiss, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other clutching his bare hip underwater, drawing them both flush together; at his back, he could feel every feather of his sodden wings caress his skin, cocooning him in soft warmth, the chill of the water forgotten. And Dean held him through each kiss, each press of lips and tongue, taking his time to suck Castiel’s lower lip between his teeth, Castiel moaning into his mouth with each nip, each lick, every brush of Dean’s hands down his chest and through the feathers closest to his body until he was shivering with it, breaking away to mouth at Dean’s neck. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hissed, pushing at Castiel’s shoulder, “ _fuck_ , Cas, stop— _stop_ for a second—.”

With visible reluctance, Castiel withdrew, his wings still working to keep Dean close. Inside the shadow of their embrace, Dean cupped Castiel’s face in his hands, drawing him in for a final kiss, smaller this time, barely a touch before he pulled away. Between them, the cobalt blue lights amid sable feathers brightened and dimmed, yet he couldn't draw away from the look in Castiel’s eyes, shining with adoration and sincerity, gleaming with unshed tears. “I love you… You know that, right?”

That time, Castiel was the one to gasp, the glow of his eyes dimming to normal levels—was he afraid? Or had he just not been prepared for the admission? “Dean, you can’t…”

“No, just… Hear me out, alright?” He couldn't believe he said it in the first place, that he had feelings for someone—that he _loved_ them, with all of his heart and soul. There were others in the past, sure: Cassie, before she moved to California with nothing but a kiss as a goodbye, or even Lisa, his date to the senior prom and girlfriend for a year, before graduation when she announced she was leaving for New York. In hindsight, he should have gone with her instead of staying behind; maybe then, he wouldn't have been in town the night of the storm. The circumstances wouldn't have been set in place—everything would still be _alright_. But he hadn’t loved her like he did Castiel: he didn't lie awake at night and think about her when she was across town, he didn't need to seek her touch every second of the day, he didn't feel sparks in their kisses, like he was suffocating between breaths.

But with Castiel… “I know you think I’m young and that this’ll be a fling, but… I don’t, Cas. I… I want you. For as long as I live, I want you with me, and Sammy does too. And even if I get old ‘n ugly and you stay like… _that_ ,” he gestured to Castiel, the lights in his wings brightening again, “I just… I owe you everything, ‘n I get it if you can’t say it back—.”

“I love you too,” Castiel swore, a declaration.

Dean closed his eyes with their next kiss, Castiel clutching him tighter, wings burning warm against his back, the glow almost blinding. Dean held him through it, arms stretched around his neck and fingers stroking along the arch of his wings in absent touches, all while Castiel thumbed his hips, the pressure stirring something inside him, the addition of Castiel’s tongue against his own drawing out a lewd moan, the sound muffled by the fluffed feathers surrounding them. Dean whined at the loss of his mouth when Castiel pulled back to lap at his pulse point, sucking a dark mark there, Dean palming his chest in a weak protest. “Love you so much, Dean, you have no idea…”

A final kiss to the reddened spot on his neck, and Castiel let him go, his wings sloshing through the water to tuck against his back; Dean blushed scarlet at the sight of the Angel, chest flushed red up to his cheeks, lips swollen and wet, all too tempting to touch again. He pressed his thumb to the swell of Castiel’s lower lip, stomach knotting, Castiel reaching up to stroke his wrist and kiss his palm. “You’re sure?” he asked, low, fighting the breathlessness of his voice, of the fear in his heart.

To his relief, Castiel nodded. “Until the day you die, I’m yours.”

Dean swallowed—he could do this, then. With Castiel, he could do anything. “Take me home, Cas,” he whispered. “Let’s go home.”

-+-+-+-+-+-

“Dean! Dean, Dean, wake up! It’s Christmas!”

Oh _fuck_.

Sam couldn't have come in at _any_ other time? Not when Castiel was a warm lump at his back and his entire body ached? They both needed a shower, too—and their sheets a wash; hopefully it would do something to get rid of the smell of lake water radiating from their skin. Apparently his brother had no such care about the fact that it was somewhere near seven in the morning and they hadn’t gotten back until late, not when he was jumping at the foot of the bed and Jasper was barking at the front door, waiting to be let out. They really needed to install a doggy door or _something_.

“Gimme ‘bout five minutes,” Dean mumbled into the blankets, covering his eyes with one arm and waving at Sam with the other. Why was the light so _bright_?

“But _Dean_!” Sam bounced onto his knees at Dean’s legs, tapping his hands on his ankle. “There’s presents under the tree, come _on_! _Ca_ — _s_ , tell Dean to wake up!”

“Your brother’s right, Sam.” If he weren’t so tired, Dean would have laughed. “We have to eat first, then presents.”

“ _Man_ ,” Sam dragged out, exasperated, “you guys _suck_.”

Sam jumped down with absolutely no grace and wandered out the bedroom door, Dean stopping him with, “You won’t think that when you see what’s on the porch.”

_That_ shut him up. Both he and Jasper were out the front door before Dean could properly appreciate his shouts, Dean rolling over to face Castiel, tugging the blankets over their heads, the overhead light temporarily extinguished. “Can’t believe you bought him a bike,” he told the Angel, failing to hide his smile.

Castiel kissed the grin off him, cupping his cheek and leaving a smaller, more purposeful press behind. “He’s seven, I figured you could teach him how.” A yawn. “There’s helmets and everything under the tree too.”

“You’re gonna spoil him.” No bitterness behind it, nothing spiteful; Dean hummed against Castiel’s neck, tucking his head under the Angel’s chin, content to listen to his heartbeat, a steady rhythm in his ear. “You sure this is alright?”

Castiel murmured in affirmation, stroking a hand down to rest at the small of his back, rubbing small circles there, an unbidden memory of lips and skin resurfacing. “It’s more than alright, Dean,” Castiel told him, a smile on his lips when he kissed his hair. Dean tangled their legs together, unwilling to let go. “We need to get up, though.”

“You seriously wanna get outta bed right now?” Dean toed at Castiel’s ankle, feeling him push back, just enough to be a warning. “Sammy’s not gonna hurt himself, lets just stay _here_.”

“You said that three weeks ago, and he somehow managed to run straight through a screen door.” Which, fair enough; Dean swore, they needed to keep him on a closer leash. Thinking of him and Castiel as a _they_ still tripped him up—but that was what they were, he figured. Together. “Come on, we need to shower.”

“Only if you come with me,” Dean suggested, winking. He earned a slap to the ass for that, failing to wiggle away when Castiel pushed him onto his back and fingered his ribs, ripping strangled laughs from his throat; he couldn't even bring himself to fight back either, instead reaching up to run his fingers through Castiel’s hair and pull him back down, sharing languid kisses until the sound of Jasper barking outside tore them out of their reverie. “If we _have_ to, I’ll get _up_.”

“That’s better,” Castiel said through a yawn. “I’ll be there in a minute… or three.”

Dean rolled his eyes and shoved Castiel off him, worming his way out of bed with a wince, sore feet padding across the floor to the dresser. “ _Fuck_ , my _ass_ , man.”

“Thought I did that last night.”

Dean threw a pillow at him.


	6. Epilogue: We Shall be Free

**Part 3**

**Epilogue**

**_May_ **

Castiel didn't get the call until the fourth Tuesday in May, seated on the front porch of his and Dean’s trailer with the latter sprawled out asleep on the glider, an old Stetson covering his face and his bare feet propped up on the arm. He didn't bother to answer it at first, Gabriel’s name flashing across the screen five times before it went to voicemail. Only, he didn't leave one. Once again, his ringtone—some song by R.E.M. that he could never remember the name of, despite how many times it played—blared, barely heard over the truck that roared past on the adjacent road. He wouldn't have called twice if it weren’t important.

Apparently, it was the most vital thing he had ever heard. “Cassie, Cassie, brother. They wanna send you to _Atlanta_!”

“They—what?” He nearly dropped his phone in his confusion, stopping his idle rock in the rocking chair with a foot to the floor; Dean startled awake from the sudden noise, hat fallen to the wood paneling. “They—Why would they do that? Who—?”

“Hannah, man! Didn’t you listen to me? Naomi’s starting a second branch of Angels up in northeast Atlanta, and she’s got Hannah running the whole operation.” Gabriel barely paused when he spoke, far more excited than Castiel was at the prospect of packing up and _leaving_. “She’s put you on the short list for employment. _And,_ she wants _you_ to go up there and work cases with Balthazar and Samandriel. You’ll get double what they pay you now, and you’ll start whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m—.” Castiel looked to Dean, noting the confusion furrowing his brow, his lips forming the words ‘What’s going on?’ “I—You know I’d love to, Gabriel, but—.”

“I know, I know, you got your little… boyfriend or whatever you call him. Seriously, Cassie, a human?” _But he’s my human_. “Look, the only reason I’m calling is because I heard through the grapevine that Hannah’s gonna be calling you tomorrow, and she’s gonna want an answer _then_. So! You got a day to figure it out. You gonna stay in that rathole town you call a home, or are you gonna pack your shit and hit up the next Greyhound leaving town?”

He couldn't—he _wouldn't_ , not if Dean didn't… “I’ll let you know tomorrow.” He hung up before Gabriel could make a retort, setting his cell phone on the metal side table and rubbing his temples, head in his hands.

Dean cleared his throat from the glider, now leaning over onto his elbows, feet brushing the pollen-laden floor. “What’s Gabe callin’ at ten in the mornin’ for? Ain’t he got shit to do? Like… sleep?”

“You would think that, wouldn't you,” Castiel sighed. “He… wanted to let me know that an associate of mine is heading a new firm in Atlanta. They’ll be calling me tomorrow to know whether or not I want to go work there.”

He didn't expect the betrayed stare Dean gave him, lips pulled into a thin line, his jaw clenching. “Are you—Are you actually thinking about it?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice calm. Even at a distance, Castiel could feel the contempt radiating off of him.

“I’d be a fool not to, Dean.” He shook his head and walked to sit next to Dean, taking his hand in his own, thumbing over the scar there, an accident with a knife last month, apparently from an attempt to open a pet carrier. “It would pay double my salary, and I— _we_ could live wherever we wanted.” Dean’s eyes widened at the mention. “What do you think about a house?”

“I—You want _us_ to come with you?” Dean was supposed to be excited for the venture, for the opportunity to leave Albany and escape their current life, away from the endless fields of cotton and wheat, from the animals that crawled in through the pipes and the summer storms that threatened to take their roof off—why did he look so torn? “I’d… You know I want to, Cas. God, everythin’ in me is tellin’ me to haul ass, but… I can’t just _leave_. I got _family_ here. We got Jody and the girls, and Bobby and Ellen, we can’t just… up and _leave_ them, can we?”

“It’s not like we couldn't visit.” Atlanta was only two and a half hours away on a good day, after all—they could still make trips during the holidays, even spend their summers there if they wanted. They didn't have to _entirely_ leave the city, not if they didn't want to. “I want you to think it over, Dean. Our contract is officially complete as soon as you finish your last task, and then you’re free to make whatever decision you want.” It hurt his heart to think of Dean not wanting to go with him, of wanting to stay behind and let him go if he absolutely needed to. But if it made Dean happy, he would do it.

Dean shook his head with a sigh, eyes locked on their joined hands. “Fifty things, huh?” Pulling himself free, he reached around to his back pants pocket, tugging out the yellow square and unfolding it, reading it over front to back. Forty-nine bullet points were listed, the fiftieth waiting to be filled, a blank spot on the last line. “Do you… God, I can’t even imagine life outside here, man.” He ran a hand down his face, breath shaking. “All I’ve ever known is this, and… What’re we supposed to do up there? How… What’re we gonna do with Sammy?”

“We can enroll him in school, do the same thing we’re doing here.” Castiel touched his fingers to Dean’s cheek, feeling the warmth there, hot from humidity and his blush; still, after all those months, Dean still flushed red whenever he touched him. “You could go to college, if you wanted. I’m sure your scholarship could still be valid, and even then, you could always apply again. There’s more there than you’ve ever known.” Dean nodded along, eyes half-lidded, head resting on his shoulder. “…You could give him the life you never got, Dean. You— _We_ could start over.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Dean muttered. “Sammy’s gonna be goin’ into the third grade, do you think…” He stopped to clear his throat, toeing at a nail in the floorboards. “…You think he’ll make friends, there? I just—I don’t want him to be alone. Not like I was.”

Castiel kissed Dean’s temple and rested their heads together, threading the fingers between one another. “He won’t be alone,” Castiel promised, soft. “He has you, and me, if he still wants.” _If you still want_. “What do you think? We could… Sam would be in a better school system there and get the education he needs, and you could start doing what _you_ wanted to all along… But if you don’t want to, if it comes down to choosing between you and the job… I won’t do it.” He caught Dean’s stare, thumbing a gentle line down his cheek. “If it means I have to pick between you or the money… Then I choose you. I’ll _always_ choose you.”

It took Dean another few minutes to reply, the two of them rocking steadily in the glider, hand in hand, the yellowed sheet of paper still clutched tight at Dean’s side. “I wanna try,” he stated, more adamant now, curling in tighter next to Castiel, a new sense of determination in his eyes; Castiel’s heart skipped a beat. “If you can help make it work, if you think there’s a way for me to get into school and get us outta bumfuck nowhere, then we’ll do it. But first, you gotta convince Sammy.”

Castiel kissed him then, swallowing Dean’s moan and replacing it with his own. “When school ends tomorrow, we’ll tell him.”

-+-+-+-+-+-

Sam hadn’t spoken a word since Dean sat him on the couch after school the following day, the boy facing him and wringing his tiny hands together, never exactly making eye contact. Dean felt for him—Sam still had friends in his classes he cared for, people he hung out with after school some days. Claire and Alex would miss him if they decided to leave, even if they came down every other weekend to visit them and Bobby, and the grandparents if they wanted. Sam had emotional connections—Dean had nothing. His decision had been easy; his brother would take convincing.

Dean glanced to Castiel across the room, the Angel sitting in one of the recliners in his suit, blue tie loosened around his neck; Dean went with Castiel to meet Hannah at the courthouse earlier in the day, the brunette going over just what Castiel’s job would entail and his salary. Full time lawyer without the obligation of taking on the Guardian side job, cost of living expenses and full payment for the move from Albany to Atlanta, a week’s stay at the Residence Inn in Dunwoody and a realtor to help them find a home once they got there. Anything less and Castiel would have declined the offer.

Now, they were waiting on Sam. Several times he opened his mouth to speak, only to close it seconds later, the will lost in him. “I don’t—what about my friends?” He looked up to Dean, tears welling in his eyes, a single drop flowing down his cheek. “What about Claire? Am I ever gonna see them again?”

Dean’s expression softened at the words, and he drew Sam into his lap, letting the boy press his face into his shirt. Not crying, but close enough. “We won’t be leavin’ forever, Sammy,” he said, running a reassuring hand through Sam’s hair. “We’re still gonna come down here for Christmas and Thanksgiving, and we’ll see your friends if you want. Nothing’s gonna change.”

“But we won’t get to see mommy and daddy anymore.” _Oh_. Not that he hadn’t thought about it; the thought of visiting their parents still left his heart sore. It wasn't like they could pack up the graves and take them along; they would only have their memories and the things they left behind with them. The stuff they still kept, at least.

Dean held his brother tighter and rested his chin atop his head, sighing into his hair. His heart hurt, heavy in his chest. “We’ll go see them too… We’ll all go.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Castiel nod and rise from his chair, sitting at Sam’s back and reaching out to place a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You can buy them presents and we’ll take them there, how’s that sound?”

Slowly, he felt Sam nod against his chest, exhaling a warm breath. A subtle agreement, but acceptance all the same. “Are we gonna live with Cas?”

Dean patted Sam’s head, unable to restrain his smile. “Do you _wanna_ live with Cas?”

Another nod; Sam pulled away and turned to Castiel, wiping one of his eyes dry. “I like Cas. I don’t wanna not see his wings anymore.”

Dean fought back a chuckle, restraining the urge to ask Sam _why_ he hadn’t said something in the first place. How long had his brother seen them, anyway? Probably from the moment they met in the courtroom, he guessed—he would ask later what that meant.  Something inside Dean warmed at Castiel’s laugh, the Angel leaning down to kiss Sam’s forehead. “I’d love for you two to live with me.”

“Then I wanna go.” Sam looked up to Dean, squirming in his lap. “Can we go, Dean?”

He caught Castiel’s eyes one more time before nodding—he knew his answer. He knew what he wanted. “…Let’s go, Cas.”

 

Later that night, before Castiel shut off the light in their room, Dean pulled the crumpled note from underneath the solar-powered Angel on the headboard and handed it off to Castiel, allowing him to read the final item on his List of Good Deeds.

_50\. Give Sammy and Cas and me a better life._

_And you see it all._

**Author's Note:**

> This would've never been finished without the help from my lovely betas [Riley](http://glassclosetcastiel.tumblr.com/) and [Jojo](http://jojodacrow.tumblr.com), who proved that I can't spell and I can restructure entire chapters in an hour's time when I finally figure out how to work things. Also, I'd never have been able to complete this, or stay alive in general, without [Cat](http://relucant.tumblr.com/). I wrote this as an escape to finishing my second to last semester, and it's been a blast ever since! Love all y'all with all my heart!
> 
> Also again, thank you [Mary](http://deanendverse.tumblr.com) for the art and your lovely company! I hope we can work together again! :D
> 
> Title is from the R.E.M. song, as is the final line.  
> Chapter titles are, in order, by: Ashley Monroe, The Whiskey Gentry, Eric Church, Gary Allan, Brad Paisley and Garth Brooks.
> 
> There's also a [Pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/zetsubounikki/spn-aftermath/) here for additional imagery! Also, there **will** be a few codas to go along with this at some point! There were a ton of scenes I wanted to add but never got around to it, so look forward to those in the coming while. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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